

GPO 



V 

















































































































































He met his brother’s frowning and almost hostile glance, and a touch of puzzled 
worriment tempered the brightness of his face. 

(See page 219) 


Sophomore at Stormbridge 




CLIF STIRLING 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 


BY 

/ 

GILBERT PATTEN 

Author of 

“The Clif Stirling Series,” “The Rockspur Athletic Stories,” 
“The Deadwood Trail,” etc., etc. 


PHILADELPHIA 

DAVID MCKAY, PUBLISHER 
604-8 SO. WASHINGTON SQUARE 


Copyright, 1916, by David McKay 


Sophomore at Stormbridge 


w* f im 


Contents 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Out of the Storm 7 

II. Hard Pushed 16 

III. A Clever Escape 26 

IV. Troubled Waters 32 

V. The Overwhelming Wave 42 

VI. In the Balance 50 

VII. The Trap 60 

VIII. Another Close Call 70 

IX. The Breath of Slander 80 

X. Everything Wrong 88 

XI. The Shock 94 

XII. Clif’s Eyes are Opened 103 

XIII. Fighting Fire with Fire 109 

XIV. In the Cage 117 

XV. Shouldering It 128 

XVI. The One Who Lacked Confidence 137 

XVII. The Suspended Sword 146 

XVIII. The Flying Bat 155 

XIX. The Runaway Steer 166 

XX. Harmon Jumps 174 

XXI. Still Doubtful 182 

XXII. Jack Finds Out 192 

XXIII. In Suspense 200 


3 


4 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

XXIV. The Gage of Battle 208 

XXV. The Fellow Who Had “Nerves”. . . 216 

XXVI. The Running High 229 

XXVII. Surprise Follows Surprise 239 

XXVIII. The Tide Against Him 252 

XXIX. The Backer 262 

XXX. The Treacherous Trail 272 

XXXI. Prisoner in the Old Quarry 286 

XXXII. Telltale Scraps of Paper 293 

XXXIII. Clif Makes a Vow 300 

XXXIV. On the Eve of the Game 309 

XXXV. The Test of Nerve 316 

XXXVI. An End — and a Beginning 323 


Clif Stirling, Sophomore 
at Storm bridge 


CHAPTER I 

OUT OF THE STORM 

A good-natured grin still lingering on his 
face, Clif Sterling jerked open the gym door 
and stepped briskly out into the darkness. 
Barely outside, he pulled up abruptly with 
an odd sense of shock. Expecting only the 
ordinary darkness of a winter evening, it took 
him a moment to adjust his mind to the dense 
clouds of flying white particles that swirled 
and eddied about him. With a grunt and a 
shiver, he hastily turned up his ulster collar 
and buttoned it tightly around his throat. 

“Oof!” he exclaimed, digging both hands 
deep into his pockets. “It's come at last. 
Some storm, too!” 

All day the leaden clouds had hung low 
over the college town, and the penetrating 
7 


8 


CLIF STIRLING 


wind, searching out thin spots in sweater or 
overcoat, had seemed to chill the marrow. 
But up to the moment when Clif entered the 
gym, some two hours earlier, not a snow- 
flake had fallen. It must have begun almost 
immediately, he reflected as he ran down the 
steps and set off at a brisk walk. Already 
the sidewalk was covered with a thick, sound- 
deadening blanket, while trees and shrubs, 
especially the evergreens, were outlined with 
little white mounds and ridges. 

With another shiver, Clif snuggled into 
his warm coat and sped on toward the campus 
proper, his steps hastened by the thought of 
the cozy blaze he had left on the study hearth. 
Harmon had surely kept it up, he decided. 
Having hugged it all afternoon, vowing that 
nothing under heaven could drag him out, 
Gene was not likely to venture forth now. 

Reaching the corner, Stirling paused for a 
moment to get his bearings. It was really 
necessary. The clouds of whirling white 
flakes obscured house fronts, trees and fences, 
dulled the street lamps to pale yellow glows, 
and transformed hurrying, hunched-up pedes- 
trians into shapeless shadows. 

It all looked so altered that Clif presently 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 9 


found himself stumbling into the murky 
shadows between the chapel and Wesley, in- 
stead of taking the shorter cut further on. 
His first thought was to turn back; then he 
decided it wasn’t worth while. A moment 
later he heard voices ahead and instinctively 
hugged the building to escape possible collision. 

He was just in time. Two figures padded 
past him so close that they brushed his 
garments, but evidently quite oblivious of his 
presence. Opposite him one laughed, an 
oddly familiar laugh that vaguely stirred a 
chord of Stirling’s memory, and above the 
swishing beat of frozen particles his voice 
came clearly to Clif’s ears: 

“ That’s some spicy bit, all right. So he’s 
one of those guys who throw an awful virtu- 
ous bluff in public and then sneak off on the 
sly and tank up. Of course I never had a 
scrap of use for him, and — Say, sport, 
you’re sure there wasn’t any mistake? You’re 
certain it was Stirling?” 

“I only know what Jim said,” returned 
the other in a muffled voice. “He swears 
he saw Stirling in Tommy’s back room last 
night. Says he was pretty well lit up, too, 
and—” 


10 


CLIF STIRLING 


The words died away in the distance; the 
two figures were swallowed up by the storm. 
Backed against the brick wall, eyes flashing, 
hands clenched, cheeks glowing with a tide 
of crimson which even the stinging smart of 
beating snow had failed to bring there, Clif 
stared after them, as motionless as if he had 
been frozen to the icy pavement. 

“The lying scoundrel!” he choked the 
next second. “Why, FU — ” 

His snapping teeth clipped off the tail of 
the sentence, and, with an inarticulate growl, 
he plunged after the unknown pair. He had 
no definite plan. He was moved by an angry 
impulse to have it out with these two who 
were so evidently bent on smirching his repu- 
tation. Had he managed to catch up with 
them during those first few moments doubt- 
less things of a strenuous nature would have 
begun to happen. But he didn’t catch up 
immediately, and very soon he realized the 
reason. Brief as had been his delay, the 
two seemed to have completely disappeared 
in the storm. 

Reaching the corner without a glimpse of 
them, Clif paused an instant and stared to 
right and left. His anger had cooled a bit, 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 11 


but the desire to discover the identity of his 
traducers was growing stronger. He was 
sure the fellows were college men. Their 
voices and accent proclaimed it, no less than 
the fact of their discussing him. Besides, 
there was that teasingly familiar note in the 
first chap’s laugh. Stirling was certain he 
had heard it somewhere before, though at the 
moment he found it impossible to remember 
where or when. 

Turning to the left, he hurried along through 
the snow. In this direction lay the shops and 
common, together with the majority of private 
lodgings occupied by students who chose to 
live outside the dormitories. The other way 
led toward the poorer part of the town, un- 
likely to attract any of the fellows. 

He had increased his speed almost to a 
run when, at the corner of King Street, he 
bumped jarringly into a man who had just 
turned into the avenue. The latter grunted 
with surprise and then chuckled a bit, utter- 
ing some brief words of good-natured apology 
which Clif did not wait to hear. 

Across the street two figures, arm in arm, 
were passing beyond the narrow circle of 
sickly light cast by a street lamp. The 


12 


CLIF STIRLING 


blinding snow made identification impossible, 
but Stirling was taking no chances. Flinging 
back over his shoulder a hasty “Beg pardon,” 
he darted across and plunged into the shadows 
of King Street, a locality noted for student 
boarding houses. 

He had taken scarcely half a dozen steps on 
this street when from out of the darkness 
ahead of him came faintly the sound of that 
familiar laugh. His eyes sparkling eagerly, 
Clif ran on past two or three houses, but 
pulled up abruptly as the front door of the 
next one opened to reveal, silhouetted for an 
instant against the yellow gas light, a bulking 
figure muffled in a long ulster. A moment 
later the light winked out, and an errant gust 
dashed into Stirling’s face a shower of icy 
particles, as if to emphasize the finis of the 
episode. 

But the Stormbridge sophomore had no in- 
tention of considering this the end. There 
was a streak of stubbornness in his make-up 
which kept him at a thing as long as there 
was a possible chance of success. The fellow 
had disappeared into the house, but what was 
to prevent Clif from following? It must be 
a student’s boarding house, than which few 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 13 


institutions were more accustomed to in- 
quiries from every sort and condition of 
caller. By this time Stirling realized the 
folly of that first angry impulse' to punch the 
slanderer. All he wanted now was to dis- 
cover the fellow’s identity. 

“And that ought to be a cinch/’ he mut- 
tered as he ran up the steps and fumbled for 
the bell. 

Subconsciously the fingers of his other hand 
closed about the door knob, which, somewhat 
to his surprise, turned in his grasp. For a 
second Clif hesitated, his hand hovering over 
the electric button. With swift impulse he 
pushed the door open and stepped into the 
house. 

He found himself in a sort of vestibule 
separated from the main hall by a wide, open 
doorway with an ornamental fretwork at the 
sides and top. Several pairs of storm over- 
shoes and goloshes ranged along one side. 
There was also a great deal of fresh snow on 
the floor, showing that his predecessor had 
paused to shake himself, and Clif at once 
followed his example. Methodically, yet with 
a certain amount of caution, he divested him- 
self of most of the storm’s traces before step- 


14 


CLIF STIRLING 


ping coolly into the main hall. He moved 
noiselessly, yet without any trace of stealthi- 
ness, glancing about searchingly for signs of 
the fellow he had been following. 

He saw none. The hall was empty. There 
was no one on the stairs, which rose straight 
up beyond the old-fashioned black walnut 
hatrack. 

But, if there was no sign of student life, 
there were plenty of sounds to assure Stirling 
that he had not blundered into a private 
dwelling. Somewhere on the second floor a 
shrill yet melodious whistle was pouring forth 
the refrain of “Old Stormbridge.” From 
still further away came the tinkle of a banjo, 
accompanied by rhythmic, regular thudding 
sounds, as if someone were dancing a jig. 
And through a partly open door almost at 
Clif’s elbow the buzz and hum of talk told 
that a number of fellows were gathered in the 
room to the left of the hall. 

The intruding sophomore took in all these 
details in a flash. The man he was following 
could scarcely have had time to get up stairs. 
Probably he had stepped into this ground 
floor room and neglected fully to close the 
door after him. Clif had only to knock 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 15 


boldly, and, should someone other than the 
latest comer open it, he would at least obtain 
a view of the room and its occupants. 

Without loss of time Stirling stepped for- 
ward to put the plan into execution. His 
hand was lifted to knock when suddenly from 
beyond the panels a pleasant, low-pitched 
voice inquired: 

“Well, Barry, how goes it? Any of the 
crowd doped out a scheme yet to prevent the 
estimable Stirling from presiding over the 
banquet to-morrow night? ” 

There was a laugh, and even in his sudden 
excitement Clif noted that it wasn’t at all the 
same laugh he had so recently heard in the 
street. 

“We sure have!” returned another voice 
in a tone of satisfaction. “I’ve just come 
from Harding’s, and I tell you if Clif Stirling 
slips out of the trap we’re going to set he’s a 
whole lot smarter than I take him for — a 
whole lot, Glen, old man.” 


CHAPTER II 


HARD PUSHED 

Clif’s hand dropped and his whole expres- 
sion changed. His eyes brightened; his face 
took on a look of alert eagerness. He had 
expected some perfunctory attempt on the 
part of the freshmen to interfere with the 
sophomore banquet, but the lower class had 
shown such lack of push and spirit that even 
this possibility had grown remote. The dis- 
covery that he had underestimated them 
came as an intense yet by no means unwel- 
come surprise. 

Half the fun of a class banquet consists in 
foiling the attempts of the rival organization 
to break it up. Usually the day of the ban- 
quet is one long series of open clashes and 
secret assaults between the two lower classes, 
increasing in strenuosity and cunning as the 
hour for the dinner approaches. 

The object of the class giving the spread is to 
appear in unbroken numbers at the proper 
16 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 17 


time and place, clad in immaculate evening 
dress, untroubled and at ease, disdainful of 
interfering rivals. The latter seek to prevent 
this by every possible means. And since 
the kidnapping of an entire class is impossible, 
the assault usually centers on its officials. 
To capture a class president and keep him 
away from the festivity over which he is 
scheduled to preside is a feat rarely accom- 
plished. When such a plot succeeds it brings 
glory to its perpetrators and everlasting 
shame to the outwitted. These happenings 
come during the winter term when there is 
little else to occupy the student mind. 

“So that’s what they’re up to,” muttered 
Stirling under his breath. “And I took ’em 
for a bunch of poor sports!” 

The situation had altered completely. In- 
stead of the casual inquirer at a student 
boarding house, he had suddenly become a 
spy in the enemy’s country. His lips took on 
a grim curve as he pictured what would fol- 
low his discovery there by any freshman. 
Under ordinary conditions the game — for 
that was really what it was — would hardly 
commence before the next morning; but there 
was nothing in the rules to prevent the fresh- 


18 


CLIF STIRLING 


men from capturing their prey at any time, 
provided they could hold him until the hour 
of the banquet. 

“What a snap it would be for them!” 
thought Clif, flashing another swift glance 
around the hall. 

There was a doubtful wrinkle in his fore- 
head. He delighted in pitting his wits and 
strength against others, but this was scarcely 
a time for recklessness. Taking a step or 
two toward the front door, he paused, lis- 
tening. 

Up-stairs the jigging had ceased, but the * 
strumming of the banjo went on merrily. 
So did the tuneful whistle. Outside the soft 
swishing beating of snow was the only sound. 
In the next room the babel of excited ques- 
tioning and comment had died away, and 
the fellow who had roused all this curiosity — 
Clif recognized him now for Barry Griffin, a 
promising freshman football man — was again 
speaking: 

“Of course we’ve got a place to keep him. 
I’ll guarantee, once he’s stowed away there, 
the whole class won’t find him in time.” 

As if drawn by a magnet, Stirling moved 
noiselessly back to the crack of the door. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 19 


It would be worth the chance if he could 
learn the freshmen plans for his own kid- 
napping. 

“No, I can’t tell you,” came in Griffin’s 
even tones above a volley of wheedling ques- 
tions. “I promised Hard. He doesn’t want 
too many wise, for fear of a leak.” 

“But how are you going to get hold of 
Stirling?” begged several voices at once. 

“Can’t tell you that, either. It’s Hard’s 
idea, so you see how I’m fixed. He’ll be 
around with a crowd pretty soon, I think, and 
may loosen up. Until he does — ” 

Clif whirled to face the front door, his heart 
leaping suddenly and his mind oblivious to the 
remainder of the speech. Above the rustling 
of the snow, the sound of voices and muffled 
stamp of feet set his nerves tingling. For a 
fraction of a second he stood motionless, 
wondering how many there were and what 
chance he would have to break through them 
and escape down the front steps. Suddenly 
recalling the deep shadows of the rear hall, 
he decided on another alternative. The new- 
comers — doubtless Harding and his crowd — 
would probably pass directly into the front 
room, so there was a fair prospect of keeping 


CLIF STIRLING 


20 

out of sight behind the stairs until the way 
was clear and he could slip out unseen. 

Noiselessly the sophomore moved back. 
But just as he was passing into the shadow he 
happened to glance upward and met the 
round-eyed, startled recognition of a callow 
youth standing in petrified astonishment at 
the top of the stairs. 

“I’m in for it!” muttered Clif with a sense 
almost of pleasure in the situation. Some- 
thing doing now, sure enough.” 

At his right the basement stairs descended 
steeply. Straight ahead was a closed door 
leading, apparently, into a rear room. With- 
out hesitation, he opened the latter, slipping 
through just as a chill blast from the street 
caught him on the back, and the chatter of 
many voices told of numbers it would have 
been difficult or impossible to break through 
by sheer force. If only that wretched little 
freshman hadn’t taken this moment to appear 
on the scene! 

But Stirling wasted no time in vain regrets. 
The room he had entered was dark and empty, 
something to be thankful for. Coolly Clif 
held the door open for a second until he had 
made out the dim outlines of two windows 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 21 


beyond a big study table. Then he closed it 
swiftly, and turned the key. But not before 
a sudden hush had fallen on the throng out- 
side, followed by a sharp, staccato exclama- 
tion: 

‘ ‘ Stirling ! Clif Stirling ! ’ ’ 

The cry was like a spark to powder. In a 
second it seemed as if the thud of feet came 
from everywhere — overhead, in the adjoining 
room, pounding down the hall. As Clif 
reached the nearest window and fumbled for 
the catch a heavy body banged against the 
door and the latch was rattled furiously. 
Followed a series of thunderous poundings, 
mingled with a babel of excited comment: 

“It’s locked!” 

“What’ll we do?” 

“ Break it down! We’ve got to catch him 
somehow!” 

“How’d he get here? Sure it’s Stirling?” 

“ Thump away,” murmured Clif, thrusting 
up the window and sticking his head out. 
“It’ll keep you from thinking of cutting me 
off in the rear.” 

The snow swirled through the window, 
beating against his face and almost blinding 
him as he bent out to get the lay of the land. 


22 


CLIF STIRLING 


The fact that the house was built on a slope 
made the drop considerable. It was also 
impossible, owing to the snow, to see what lay 
beneath the window. But Clif could not 
afford to delay. As he thrust one leg over the 
sill an authoritative voice rose above the 
clamor in the hall: 

“Here! What good does that do? Cut it 
out! Barry, you take three or four fellows 
and hustle down through the basement. 
Some more of you chase around the block 
to head him off if he gets over the fence. 
We’ve got to nab him; it's too good a chance 
to lose. Get a move on, Glen!” 

“Some clever little organizer,” thought 
Clif, hanging by both hands from the sill. 
“Must be Harding. Wonder why we haven’t 
heard of him before? Well, here goes. Hope 
there’s no garbage pail underneath.” 

There wasn’t, but he struck the edge of a 
wooden box or crate and sprawled headlong 
in the snow. Jarred, but unhurt, he scram- 
bled to his feet and ran to a high board fence 
that separated the small back yard from its 
neighbors. Encumbered by his heavy coat, 
it was no simple job to reach the top with his 
hands and swing himself up. As he dropped 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 23 


into the shelter of the next yard he heard 
behind him the rattle of a bolt, the creak of 
hinges and the sudden chatter of excited 
voices. 

“ Close !” he murmured delightedly. He 
was beginning to enjoy the situation; it was 
rather like an exciting game of hare and 
hounds. “Now if I can — ” 

He stopped, perplexed; but after a moment 
he laughed softly to himself. Instead of 
climbing into the yard that backed up on the 
one from which he had just escaped, he had 
scrambled over the side fence into the yard 
next door. For a moment he had been 
troubled by the mistake, but now a scheme 
flashed into his mind whereby he might turn 
it to his advantage. It was not likely his 
pursuers would expect him to take this course, 
and therefore if he made haste he might cir- 
cumvent the fellows who had gone around to 
head him off. Unfortunately, those behind 
could follow his tracks, but he believed he 
could keep ahead of them. 

The next division fence was reached and 
surmounted, and the next. There was only 
one way to pass out into the street, and that 
was through the houses. Clif was unwilling 


24 


CLIF STIRLING 


to take that risk. On the corner of King 
Street and Eastern Avenue, however, stood 
the delicatessen store of old Herman Blum, 
whose son and chief assistant, a thoroughly 
Americanized young man, was an ardent 
admirer of Stirling’s athletic prowess. To- 
ward this refuge Clif hurried. 

“If Hermie’s alone he’ll pass me through, 
and not let a peep out of him,” thought the 
sophomore, reaching the last yard and feeling 
his way between the piled up boxes and bar- 
rels. “Unless there’s a bunch on the corner, 
I can slip out and leg it for Hackett.” 

Passing through the rear door, he paused 
in the shadows to reconnoitre. As he had 
hoped, the younger Blum was alone save for 
Jake, the burly delivery “boy.” The latter, 
muffled in a sheep-lined coat and voluminous 
woolen cap, was warming his hands at the 
stove. 

A cautious whistle brought Hermie to the 
rear of the store, and a few words sufficed to 
acquaint him with the situation. 

“Sure thing, I’ll get you through,” he 
agreed, chuckling. “I’ve been wanting to 
get one on that bunch for a good while.” 
Hermie’s grip on the language of his adopted 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 25 


country was thorough and complete. “I 
heard a crowd go by a few minutes ago, and 
wondered what was up. I guess the coast is 
clear all right, but you better wait here till I 
take a peek outside.” 

Walking briskly back through the store, he 
paused beside the stove. 

“Them few orders'll have to wait till 
morning, Jake,” he said. “It ain't any kind 
of a night for delivering. Better put the 
rig up an' get your supper. Then come back 
an’ tend store while I slip out for mine.” 

With a grunt, “Dutch” Jake reached for a 
pair of woolen gloves that had been drying 
behind the stove and began slowly drawing 
them on. 

Clif's interested gaze followed Hermie 
through the store, saw him open the door, 
caught a glimpse through the swirling snow- 
flakes of a delivery wagon and blanketed 
horse standing at the curb. Then he ducked 
behind a pickle barrel. 

Out there in the deep, sheltered doorway of 
the store, standing like sentinels, were three 
burly fellows wearing freshman caps. 


CHAPTER III 


A CLEVER ESCAPE 

For an instant Clif thought they had seen 
him and were waiting for him to walk out 
into their arms. Then he realized this was 
impossible. The glass was frosted over with 
snow, and he had not ventured out of the 
shadows. They were posted there as a pre- 
caution in case he should escape the other 
searchers. All the freshmen in the block 
must have been routed out to join in the 
chase, he decided, and again he admired 
Harding’s cleverness and wondered why he 
had never heard the fellow’s name before. 

On the heels of these mere thought flashes 
came the unpleasant realization that he was 
trapped. Those in pursuit might be delayed 
a few minutes by the need of a lantern, but, 
once that was procured, they would have no 
difficulty in following his trail swiftly and 
accurately. To wait where he was would 
mean certain capture. To attempt to rush 
26 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 27 


the group in front, with the probability of 
ample reinforcements being within their call, 
was almost as sure to result in the same thing. 
Yet there must be some way out. He heard 
Hermie’s casual comment, “ Tough night, 
boys; don’t look as if it would let up, does it?” 
There was a murmured answer as the door 
closed. Clif ventured to raise his eyes above 
the level of the barrel. 

Dutch Jake was still hugging the stove. 
Stirling’s eyes swept appraisingly over the 
bulky figure. Then his face lit up and he 
called a low warning to the approaching 
Herman: 

“ Don’t come any closer, Hermie; they may 
be watching. Listen! I’ve got an idea. 
Where’s your stable?” 

Hermie bent over the counter as if writing. 
“Two blocks down King, just around the 
corner from Ann. But I don’t see what the 
deuce — ” 

“Why shouldn’t I walk out of the door in 
Jake’s coat, hat and apron, and drive off in 
the wagon under their very noses?” 

For a second Hermie was motionless; then 
his shoulders began to shake. “Great!” he 
chuckled out of one side of his mouth. “Not 


28 


CLIF STIRLING 


a reason in the world that I know of. What 
a sell! Here, Jake! Hustle back there and 
get out of your coat and things for Mr. Stir- 
ling. Say! How’ll you get ’em back, Clif?” 

“ Don’t know, but I’ll manage somehow. 
They’ll be here by morning — don’t worry. 
I’ll leave my coat and hat for Jake to wear 
to-night. Hustle, son. Time is precious.” 

Slipping back into the darkest extremity of 
the store, he was out of his ulster in a trice. 
Bewildered but acquiescent, the slow-thinking 
helper allowed himself to be stripped of the 
sheep-lined coat, the soiled apron he wore 
underneath — for what purpose Clif had never 
fathomed — and the woolen hat. Less than 
a moment later the sophomore had them on 
his own back and was shambling forward 
through the store with an imitation of Jake’s 
walk that fairly convulsed the appreciative 
Hermie. With the high collar turned up and 
the hat pulled down, only a small wedge of 
Clif’s face was visible. 

“They won’t recognize me, do you think?” 
he asked, pausing beside the chuckling store- 
keeper. 

“Not on your life! You got Dutchie down 
pat. Take this empty box; it’ll give you 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 29 


something to carry. An’ IT1 go to the door 
an’ call something after you that’ll make ’em 
sure it’s all right. The stable’s on the left, 
third door from Ann Street. You can’t 
miss it. There’s a boy there that’ll look after 
the horse. Jake, you stay out of sight till I 
come back.” 

Clif picked up the wooden box from the 
floor and walked toward the door, Hermie 
following him. His heart was beating a bit 
unevenly, but he did not hesitate. Without 
looking to right or left, he slouched past the 
three fellows in the doorway, dumped the 
box in the rear of the wagon and moved around 
to untie the horse. As he walked he shuffled 
his feet in the sliow to conceal, if possible, the 
very trim tan shoes, which were at least three 
sizes too small for the heavy-footed Jake. 

“ Don’t you be too long coming back, 
Jake,” warned Hermie from the doorway. 

Clif dragged the blanket from the horse’s 
back and climbed into the wagon seat. 

“Ach, mercy!” he grunted, gathering up 
the reins. “I haf my supper yet to get.” 

Hermie choked, then coughed. “Well, you 
needn’t be all night about it. I haven’t had 
mine yet, so stir yourself.” 


30 


CLIF STIRLING 


“And don’t eat too much sauer-kraut, 
Dutch,” chimed in one of the waiting fresh- 
men waggishly. “It’s bad for you in cold 
weather.” 

Clif struggled against the temptation t.o 
retort mockingly in his own voice and then 
whip up the horse before the fellows could 
recover from their surprise. Fortunately, he 
realized in time the folly of doing such a thing 
before he was well out of the woods. With 
a surly grunt and a harsh “geddap,” he guided 
the horse across Eastern Avenue, and was 
lost to sight in the snow. 

Before he had gone half a block the sopho- 
more’s face was wreathed in a wide grin. He 
was thinking of the disgust of those freshmen 
when they learned how they had been out- 
witted, and wishing that he might somehow 
be around when that amusing event happened. 

He found the stable without difficulty and 
turned the horse over to the young fellow in 
charge. Then he headed for Hackett Hall. 

As he tramped briskly through the snow he 
was more and more conscious of a pleasant 
glow of self-congratulation. It would scarcely 
have been human nature not to be rather set 
up over the way things had worked out. Not 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 31 

only had he managed to extricate himself 
with flying colors from a difficult situation, 
but he had turned the tables on the rival class 
in a manner that would cause the rest of the 
college to roar with delight. 

“They’ll never hear the end of it,” he 
chuckled as he entered the side door of the 
dormitory and shook the snow from the 
borrowed coat. “Just wait till the crowd 
finds out how they had me hard and fast and 
then let me slip through their fingers, like a 
lot of ninnies. Won’t Gene whoop his head 
off when I tell him — ” 

He paused, one foot on the bottom step. 
From above came the murmur of voices, fol- 
lowed swiftly by the sound of a deep laugh 
that ended with a curious upward inflection 
that brought a look of startled, incredulous 
recognition into Stirling’s eyes. For a second 
he stood motionless, bewilderment warring 
with a growing sternness in his mobile face. 

“Great Scott!” he muttered. “It — it can’t 
be — ” 

A nearby door banged shut. A moment 
later another, somewhat further off, closed. 
Silence followed. 


CHAPTER IV 


TROUBLED WATERS 

Taking the stairs two steps at a jump, Clif 
reached the upper corridor in time to see a 
light spring up in the transom of their study. 
When he jerked the door open, Gene Harmon, 
wearing his overcoat and a woolen skating 
cap, whirled nervously to face him, a smoking 
match still clutched between his gloved 
fingers. His startled gaze no sooner took in 
the figure in the doorway than he caught his 
breath and fell back a step or two. 

“Eh? What — ” he stammered. “Who — 
Oh!” He laughed. It was a shrill, nervous 
laugh, full of relief and relaxing tension, yet 
having about it a distinct undercurrent of 
embarrassment. “It’s you? Why, what the 
dickens are you togged up that way for? 
What's doing?” 

For a moment Clif did not answer. His 
steady gaze was fixed intently on the rosy, 
flushed face of the chap before him; his lips 

32 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 33 


were slightly parted before the stern, impul- 
sive question trembling there. Then, all at 
once, they closed over the unuttered words, 
and, with a slight movement of his wide 
shoulders, he began stripping off the incon- 
gruous garments he had momentarily for- 
gotten. 

“ Nothing now,” he answered briefly. He 
dropped the sheep-skin lined coat on a chair, 
folded the soiled apron methodically, and 
added the woolen cap to the pile. “Just 
been playing a little hide and seek with some 
frosh. Been out?” he added carelessly as he 
passed through the open bedroom door and 
paused before his bureau. 

“Why, yes,” murmured Harmon hesitat- 
ingly. The square glass mirrored him dis- 
tinctly, a clean cut figure in the bright glow 
of the gas jet. Clif saw one hand, half lifted 
in a characteristic fluttering gesture, saw the 
teeth close over his lower lip and the color 
deepen in the smooth, rosy cheeks. “I — 
I remembered an errand and — chased out a 
little while ago to do it. Beastly night!” 

“Punk,” agreed Stirling, laying down the 
brushes and turning to the wash-stand. 

But his jaw had hardened, and into his face 


34 


CLIF STIRLING 


there flashed a look of mingled pain and indig- 
nation. He had not failed to note the mass of 
dead ashes in the fire-place and the touch of 
chilliness in the room that told, plainly as 
words, of a prolonged absence on the part 
of the warmth-loving Harmon. 

“Who was it that came in with you just 
now?” Clif questioned, pouring out the water. 

“Just now? Oh, you mean Les Fahnestock? 
I — er — met him and we came along together.” 

Clif winced, and a sinking sensation over- 
whelmed him momentarily. So it was true! 
The fellow who had been so ready to believe 
that scurrilous lie about him, who had wel- 
comed with delight a scandal that would have 
made most men flame up in indignant denial, 
was Lester Fahnestock — his friend! No won- 
der that laugh had seemed familiar when it 
was a sound that had rung out almost daily 
in these very rooms for months. The sur- 
prising fact was Clif’s failure to recognize 
it instantly. Doubtless it was the utter ab- 
surdity of the connection that had dulled his 
perceptions. 

For it was absurd, incongruous, to think 
of such an attitude as even remotely possible 
in a fellow who, almost from the moment of 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 35 


his belated entrance into the sophomore class 
last fall, had gone out of his way to seek Clif 
Sterling’s friendship. He had, as Harmon 
once jokingly remarked, “made a dead set” 
for his popular classmate; and the latter, from 
early indifference, had been won over by the 
other’s efforts until he came to like the man 
immensely and to care for him almost as 
genuinely and deeply as he cared for Gene or 
Dick Madison, or one or two others of the 
old crowd that had gone through the trials 
and vicissitudes and triumphs of freshmen 
days together. 

The shock of realizing that this strenuous 
pretense of friendship was all a sham would 
in itself have been bitter enough, without the 
accompanying suspicion of Harmon. That 
hurt more than anything else. 

Yet Clif could not quell the hateful growing 
doubt of his own roommate. There could be 
no question of Gene’s attempt to deceive him 
regarding his movements in the last hour or 
so. He knew the curly-haired chap too well 
to be in any uncertainty on that score. The 
vague talk of an errand was a most palpable 
subterfuge. He had been out in the snow — 
which he hated — for at least an hour, prob- 


36 


CLIF STIRLING 


ably longer, and had returned in company 
with Lester Fahnestock. What was there to 
prevent his being that second fellow who had 
passed Clif in the narrow passage between the 
chapel and Wesley, the fellow whose low, 
mumbled utterance had been impossible to 
recognize? 

Sore, hurt, bewildered, unable to understand 
what it was all about, yet feeling vaguely 
that the whole world had turned suddenly 
against him, Clif dried his hands mechanically. 
He turned to find that Harmon had scarcely 
stirred from his position beneath the light. 
Gene’s face was vaguely troubled, but, as he 
met Clif’s gaze, he seemed to pull himself 
together. 

“ Aren’t you going to tell me about that 
mix-up with the frosh?” he asked, with an 
attempt at lightness. 

Stirling shrugged his shoulders indiffer- 
ently. All the spice and fun seemed to have 
been squeezed out of his late adventure. A 
little while ago he had looked forward eagerly 
to sharing it with Gene, to enjoying it all in 
retrospect to the accompaniment of his room- 
mate’s infectious giggle and amusing com- 
ments. But now it didn’t seem to matter 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 37 


much whether Harmon or anyone else heard 
the details. 

“It wasn’t much of anything,” he evaded, 
crossing to the closet and pulling out a heavy 
sweater. “ I was over on King Street and got 
cornered by a crowd that wanted to keep me 
away from the dinner to-morrow night. 
Managed to slip into old Blum’s place, and got 
away by walking out in Jake’s clothes.” 

As a recital it sounded extremely flat and 
uninteresting. Clif realized it, but he could 
not bring himself to further elaboration. He 
had a feeling that he didn’t want to talk just 
now. 

Harmon’s interested comment and eager, 
impulsive questioning brought forth only 
curt, brief answers that chilled enthusiasm 
effectually. But five minutes later, as they 
were on the point of sallying forth to dinner, 
Stirling, glancing around impatiently from 
the doorway, surprised on Gene’s face a look 
of such troubled, wistful questioning that it 
brought about a swift revulsion of feeling. 

What right had he to assume so much on 
such scanty evidence? It was quite con- 
ceivable that Gene might have gone out on 
some business he preferred keeping to himself; 


38 


CLIF STIRLING 


quite possible that the return with Fahne- 
stock had been merely a coincidence and that 
he had not been one of the pair Clif had fol- 
lowed down King Street. What a suspicious, 
surly beggar he was to let this single inex- 
plicable circumstance outweigh a year and a 
half of close, devoted friendship! If he had 
stopped to think he would have realized that 
Harmon was incapable of such treachery. 
He flushed a little in shame and pulled his 
cap forward with a nervous movement. 

“ Hustle up, for heaven’s sake, Gene!” he 
urged. “ There won’t be a thing left to eat 
if we dawdle much longer.” 

The admonition was sharp, but it held an 
undercurrent of something that brought a 
sparkle to the other’s eyes and swept away 
the look of troubled worry. Quickly turning 
out the light, the curly-haired fellow hastened 
after his friend, and they ran down stairs 
together. 

Meeting the first blast of the storm, Clif 
tucked the other’s arm under his own. As 
they plowed along through the snow, heads 
down and faces tingling from the sting of icy 
particles, he found himself letting out, little 
by little, the details he had before suppressed 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 39 


of his encounter with the freshmen. And 
Harmon’s delighted giggle and chortling ap- 
proval and eager questioning made Clif warm 
to him more and more, and swept away much 
of the sting and hurt he had been enduring. 

After all, why need he be so troubled over 
Fahnestock’s inexplicable behavior? He had 
plenty of other friends, and it was much better 
to have his eyes opened to the fellow’s real 
attitude than go on blindly trusting him. At 
least, Gene was true; he had been a cad ever 
to doubt him. 

Almost before it seemed possible, they had 
reached the building that housed the sopho- 
more club table to which they both belonged. 
As they paused on the lighted porch to shake 
themselves a muffled, passing figure stopped 
at the gate. 

“ Hello! That you, Clif?” came in the 
voice of Digby Lowell, ex-football captain 
and the leading spirit of Theta Gamma fra- 
ternity. “ Going to be home to-night?” 

“Sure,” was the answer, “unless I’m snowed 
up here.” 

“Fierce, isn’t it?” commented the older 
fellow. “I’ll look in around eight or so, if 
you’re not going to have company.” 


40 


CLIF STIRLING 


“Fine! Come ahead. Well be all alone, 
far as I know. Put you up for the night if you 

say so.” 

“Much obliged, but I guess I can plow 
back to the house all right,” returned the 
senior. “See you later, then.” 

He passed out of sight, and the two sopho- 
mores sought shelter within. Neither of 
them commented on the encounter, but, as 
they shed their outer garments in the hall, 
Harmon’s exuberance seemed to have toned 
down a trifle. He liked and admired Lowell 
exceedingly, but always the latter’s visits to 
Stirling brought Harmon a certain amount 
of discomfort. 

Gene could never quite forget that his chum 
had been elected to this most prominent secret 
society at Stormbridge, while he himself had 
never been asked to join. Naturally, Clif 
had never allowed the fact to make the slight- 
est difference in their friendship. On the 
contrary, he had several times refused to take 
up his abode in the fraternity house because 
it would mean their separation. But Har- 
mon, out of an abnormal sensitiveness, 
mingled, perhaps, with a touch of very natu- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 41 


ral envy, was always more or less conscious of 
the situation. 

“I don’t see why he has to come around to- 
night,” muttered the pink-cheeked fellow 
under his breath, following Stirling into the 
dining room. “Some old frat business, I 
suppose. It’s an awful nuisance.” 


CHAPTER V 


THE OVERWHELMING WAVE 

Geoff Harland’s table, as it was called 
because of the chap who ran it, was the most 
popular eating club at Stormbridge. Har- 
land could have filled it thrice over had he 
chosen, and had the accommodations per- 
mitted. But he preferred to confine it to a 
small body of fellows who would be thor- 
oughly congenial, rather than run the risk of 
dissensions and disagreements inevitable with 
a» larger number. His limit, therefore, was 
ten, and it was generally conceded that he 
had secured quite the most prominent and 
representative sophomores in college, with 
the exception, of course, of those fraternity 
men who ate at their respective houses. 

There was Collie Campbell, who had fielded 
for two games with the varsity in his freshman 
year and was almost certain to make good 
during the coming season. Tom Ferguson 
and Bruce Kester had been on the football 

42 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 43 


squad last fall. Russ Cheney was assistant 
editor of the Courier. Paul Wick, Lester 
Fahnestock’s roommate, was spoken of as a 
promising possibility for the tennis cham- 
pionship, and had also gained some honors at 
the fall track meet. Max Rounds, Harland, 
and Fahnestock himself were undistinguished 
athletically, but distinctly in the class of men 
vaguely known as prominent. There were 
rumors that the latter would make a sensa- 
tion on the diamond this spring, but since he 
had only entered at the beginning of the 
sophomore year, these remained to be sub- 
stantiated. 

These eight were already gathered at the 
table, and as they entered the tardy members 
were greeted with various jocose remarks: 

“ Welcome, Captain Peary! How’s the 
north pole?” 

“ Just going to organize a rescue party.” 

“Did you hitch the snow plow outside?” 

“Were you held up digging little Genie out 
of a drift?” 

With smiling rejoinder, Clif dropped into 
his chair. By chance he caught the amused 
glance of Lester Fahnestock, sitting directly 
opposite. 


44 


CLIF STIRLING 


“You really had us worried, old man,” the 
latter said in his genial manner. “The frosh 
over on King Street are buzzing around like a 
swarm of bees. A bunch held me up on the 
corner of Eastern a while ago, and they didn’t 
loosen up till someone came along who recog- 
nized my phiz. Looked as if they were 
chasing somebody important, and I’d just 
begun to wonder” — his smile deepened and 
his voice took on a note of good-natured 
raillery — “if they weren’t after our esteemed 
president.” 

For a second or two, smiling and composed, 
Stirling’s glance swept over the dark, hand- 
some features of the chap opposite him. He 
wondered why he had never noticed before 
that the face was just a shade too long, the 
nose a trifle too prominent and hawklike. 
He wondered, too, how it was possible for 
Fahnestock to regard him with that level, 
straightforward look and summon into his 
voice that deceptive note of friendliness. 
Then he took a spoonful of soup and leaned 
back in his chair. 

“They were,” he stated quietly. 

“What!” exclaimed Geoff Harland doubt- 
fully. “You’re joshing, aren’t you, old man? ” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 45 


Clif shook his head. “Hardly. The joke 
was on the other crowd. I got quite a lot of 
amusement out of it.” 

Amidst the sudden babel of excited ques- 
tioning that arose, Clif, though seemingly 
absorbed in his soup, continued to study the 
chap across the table. Fahnestock took no 
part in the turmoil. He was leaning back 
negligently in his chair, one outstretched hand 
toying carelessly with a fork. His lips were 
still curved in that faint, friendly smile; his 
eyes, hidden a little by the drooping lashes, 
still rested on Stirling’s face. But Clif could 
not tell whether the expression in their 
depths was one of surprise, interest, or in- 
difference. He did notice, however, a single 
faint line that had dodged into the smooth 
forehead. 

As he waited for the noise to subside 
there flashed into Clif’s mind a fresh sus- 
picion that brought a touch of hardness to 
his square jaw. A moment later his glance 
was sweeping good-humoredly around the 
table. 

“If you’re all quite through holding the 
floor,” he drawled, “I’ll give you the facts. 
It’s evident we’ve misjudged our verdant 


46 


CLIF STIRLING 


friends. They seem to have been suddenly 
infused with a lot of new gumption. By the 
way, who’s this chap Harding I’ve been hear- 
ing about for the first time to-day? He’s a 
new one on me.” 

“ Harding? Harding? ” repeated Ferguson. 
“Oh! I believe there is a freshie by that 
name who entered in January. Comes from 
Illinois or some place out there.” 

“It’s Indiana,” corrected Campbell. “He 
tried for the hockey team, but didn’t make it. 
Not a bad sort, I should say.” 

1 1 Hum ! ’ ’ murmured Stirling. ‘ ‘ I must have 
been asleep at the switch. Well, it doesn’t 
matter. He wasn’t to blame for this. I 
walked into it myself.” 

Briefly, yet with a certain amount of detail, 
especially at the climax, he went on to relate 
the story of his brush with the rival classmen. 
He suppressed the fact that he had been sur- 
prised in the freshman rooming house; it 
was impossible to explain his presence there 
without betraying much more than he wished 
to Fahnestock. The simple statement that he 
had been cornered in that neighborhood and 
forced to take refuge in the delicatessen 
store seemed to pass muster. The narration 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 47 


of what followed convulsed his hearers with 
laughter. 

Fahnestock seemed especially entertained. 
His mirth was the heartiest and most pro- 
longed. That deep note, ending with the 
curious upward inflection, brought Clif’s 
teeth momentarily together and caused his 
hand, lying concealed below the table edge, to 
clench tightly. 

“ Stung!” ejaculated Fahnestock. “Oh, 
what a sell! They’ll never hear the last of 
it.” His mirth subsided in little chuckles. 
“But what had this Harding to do with it? 
And how the deuce did you happen to know 
him, old man, if you’d never heard of him 
before?” 

“He seemed to be the leader. I heard 
some of the others mention his name.” 

“You must have been mighty close,” put 
in Wick. 

“I was,” confessed Stirling; “altogether 
too close for a while. I have an idea that 
they may be at some more of their tricks to- 
morrow to keep a bunch of us from the ban- 
quet. It’s up to us to look sharp and not be 
caught napping.” 

Fahnestock pooh-poohed the idea, saying 


48 


CLIF STIRLING 


that he hadn’t much faith in the ingenuity of 
the freshmen. The others, delighted at the 
possibility of a clash, cried him down, and at 
length he subsided good-naturedly. Pres- 
ently he withdrew with Wick and two other 
fellows who had engagements. 

After Fahnestock’s departure Clif suggested 
a few precautions for the morrow, and pres- 
ently the remainder of the party broke up. 
Most of them left at once. Stirling, after he 
had started down the steps, went back to the 
door for a word with Harland, leaving Harmon 
at the gate. He was in the midst of a sen- 
tence when the stentorian voice of Jasper 
Rowe, junior and member of the football 
squad, smote suddenly on his ears: 

“Hello, Genie! You’re getting reckless in 
your old age, son. I should think you and 
Les Fahnestock would be a bit nervous, 
tramping past the freshmen lairs on King 
Street like you were to-night, so near your 
banquet. You might have got kidnapped.” 

Clif set his teeth upon his under lip, glanc- 
ing swiftly sidewise to meet Gene’s fright- 
ened eyes darting in his direction. An in- 
stant later he deliberately turned his back 
and went on talking to Harland. He must 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 49 


have been fairly coherant, for Geoff seemed to 
notice nothing out of the way in his manner. 
In reality he was scarcely conscious of what 
he said, so overwhelming was the wave of 
disappointment and angry conviction that 
swept over him. 


CHAPTER VI 


IN THE BALANCE 

Barely a word was exchanged as Stirling 
and Harmon trudged back to Hackett. The 
silence tingled like electrically charged at- 
mosphere. 

Reaching their rooms, Clif lit the gas and 
hung his sweater and cap on a chair to dry. 
Then he proceeded to build a fire. He was 
aware that Gene, without removing his over- 
coat, was moving restlessly about the room, 
nervously picking up a book here or a pic- 
ture there, but laying them quickly down 
again with scarcely a glance. Several times 
Stirling caught his roommate’s eyes fixed on 
him with a furtive look that shifted in- 
stantly. Once Harmon cleared his throat as 
if on the point of speaking, but no words 
came forth. Perhaps they were frozen by 
Stirling’s cold aloofness. It was not until 
the fire was burning brightly and Clif had 
moved over to the table to light the student 
lamp that Gene broke the awkward silence. 

50 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE SI 


“It’s almost eight,” he said with a pal- 
pable attempt at lightness. “ Guess I’d bet- 
ter skip out and leave you and Lowell to your 
pow-wow. I’ll drop in and see — er — some 
of the fellows!” 

Clif straightened with a slight movement 
of his shoulders. “ Perhaps it would be just 
as well,” he said briefly. “I dare say he 
won’t be long.” 

He did not look at Harmon, nor did he 
move from the table until the door closed and 
he was alone. Then he pulled an easy chair 
up to the blaze and dropped into it. 

“Gone to see his friend Fahnestock, I sup- 
pose,” he said bitterly. “This makes a good 
excuse.” 

The frown deepened and he drew up one 
knee to clasp it with his strong, brown fingers. 
For a space he sat with his gaze fixed on the 
dancing flames. Then his head lifted and his 
eyes wandered around the room, noting its 
cheery curtains, its comfortable window seat 
piled high with cushions, its books and pic- 
tures, and the many nicknacks and trophies 
gathered together in a year and a half of 
crowded college life. 

It was an uncommonly attractive room, 


52 


CLIF STIRLING 


and Clif had been secretly not a little proud 
of it. Just now, however, it seemed as if he 
could see nothing but Harmon's belongings, 
alive with Harmon's personality. And in his 
heart the bitterness increased as the ever- 
lasting, nagging question dinned through his 
brain: Why had Gene turned against him? 
If he had a grievance, why couldn't he have 
come out with it fair and square? If he had 
found other friends he preferred to the one 
who had done not a little toward smoothing 
his path during the freshman year, it wasn't 
necessary to stab in the back in order to 
bring about a break. 

“There are plenty of other fellows I could 
chum with," muttered Clif, running his fingers 
through his thick blond hair. “I've stayed 
out of the frat house just because of him. 
Hanged if I can understand it! It doesn't 
seem like Gene at all." 

Up to within the past week — looking back, 
Clif was now aware of a certain vague aloof- 
ness in his roommate's manner during the 
recent few days, that had passed unnoticed 
at the time — Gene had certainly showed no 
signs of waning friendliness. But now, with 
the evidence so strong, what else was possible 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 53 


save to identify him as the fellow who had 
retailed a scurrilous lie to Les Fahnestock? 

“And how in thunder do I know what sort 
of a chap he really is down underneath?” 
Stirling asked himself with sudden awakening. 
“He’s branched out a whole lot since a year 
ago last fall. He isn’t a bit the scary, ner- 
vous, dependent chap he was when he first 
came. He’s made a lot of friends and is 
chummy with fellows I hardly know. He 
could have easily drifted into — ” 

There came a knock. By the time he had 
crossed the room and opened the door to admit 
Digby Lowell there was no trace left of the 
trouble and vexation of spirit so prominent 
a moment before. With a smiling greeting, 
he took the senior’s coat and hat, pushed him 
into the chair by the fire and pulled another 
up alongside. 

“There ! If there’s anything you want that 
isn’t in sight, don’t hesitate to mention it,” 
he said. “It won’t put me out a bit if I 
don’t happen to have it handy.” 

Lowell smiled, stretching both hands to the 
blaze. “Thanks,” he drawled. “You al- 
ways were accommodating. Luckily, I don’t 
happen to hanker after anything but what 


54 


CLIF STIRLING 


I’ve got right here — the fire and a big, over- 
grown chump to listen while I spiel. Harmon 
gone out?” 

*“ Just chased out to see some friends.” 

“That’s good.” Lowell stretched his legs 
and fumbled in his pockets for pipe and 
tobacco. “He usually does have the sense 
to beat it when we want to chin. He’s de- 
veloped into a pretty decent kid, after all, 
Clif. If only there was a little more to him; 
if only he’d do something with his life here 
that would lift him up above the dead level, 
there might be a chance — ” 

He did not finish, but Stirling knew he was 
thinking of eligibility to Theta Gamma. A 
few hours ago Clif would have welcomed this 
admission with delight, for Dig had never 
gone quite so far before. But now the words 
merely brought a slight frown to his forehead, 
and he waited in silence while Lowell filled 
and lighted his pipe and leaned back with a 
sigh of comfort. 

“Well, no use thinking about that, I sup- 
pose,” resumed the older chap. “It’s you 
who have dragged me out into the cold world 
to-night, you big lobster. Seriously, old 
man, don’t you think it’s high time you 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 55 


chucked this and came to live at the frat 
house? I understand all about your reasons 
for staying out till now, and I respect them. 
There are mighty few fellows who would give 
up what you have, just because they thought 
another chap needed them and leaned on 
them. It isn’t fair to yourself to go on this 
way any longer. Harmon’s able to take care 
of himself, and you’re missing the best part 
of college life by living out of the house. 
You’re not getting in close touch with the 
boys and making the genuine, lasting friend- 
ships that stick to a chap through life. More- 
over, you’re depriving us all of your society. 
The fellows want you to come, old man, and I 
want you. So why not get busy and finish 
things up here and come where you belong?” 

For a moment Clif sat silent, a warm glow 
stealing over him. Digby Lowell was one 
of the most prominent, most sought after 
men at Stormbridge. A fine athlete and a 
leader in many phases of college activity, he 
was possessed of a degree of charm and per- 
sonal magnetism that made him immensely 
popular with all sorts and conditions of men. 
His words came like healing balm to Stirling’s 
hurt pride and wounded self-esteem. Lowell 


56 


CLIF STIRLING 


was not prodigal with his requests; he did not 
have to be. He surely wanted Clif. And 
back of him stood the whole fraternity. In 
comparison to this, the inexplicable deflection 
of Gene Harmon became suddenly a small and 
petty thing. 

“You're mighty good to put it that way, 
Dig," Clif said gratefully. “I appreciate it. 
It's not that I haven't wanted to come. 
Staying away hasn't been so easy, but I 
thought that Harmon — Well, I don't know 
but you're right. He certainly has — changed. 
The only trouble is that I'm not sure it 
would be quite fair to leave him with these 
rooms on his hands." 

“You're not tied up for any length of time, 
are you?" 

“No, we take them by the month. But, of 
course, it was sort of understood we'd be to- 
gether through this year, and I'm certain 
Gene couldn't afford to keep them alone." 

Lowell shrugged his shoulders. “He ought 
not to have much trouble finding somebody to 
come in with him. It's one of the best suites 
in Hackett, and you two have fixed it up 
mighty comfortable. Better say yes, old 
man, and have it settled." 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 57 


Clif hesitated. Then his jaw tightened 
with sudden decision. “I guess you're right, 
Dig. I fancy he can get along perfectly well 
without me. I won't actually decide this 
minute. There's plenty of time, for we paid 
the month's rent only last week. You won't 
mind my thinking it over a bit, will you — es- 
pecially since there really isn't much doubt 
about how I'll decide?" 

Lowell would rather have had a hard-and- 
fast decision on the spot, but he had too much 
tact and knew Stirling too well to press the 
matter. 

“Of course not," he returned heartily. 
“Take all the time you want. It wouldn't be 
a bad idea to have your mind made up before 
the next meeting, but even that isn't neces- 
sary." He threw out both arms, stretching 
luxuriously. “Well, your days of elegant 
leisure are about over, old top. Cuth tells me 
he's going to start work on Monday." 

Clif nodded. For a space the two fell to 
discussing the baseball situation, going over 
the old players and speculating on what sort 
of new material the call to indoor practice 
would bring forth. 

It was a topic that interested them deeply, 


58 


CLIF STIRLING 


Stirling, particularly, being more and more 
drawn out of himself. The very names and 
phrases made him realize, more than any- 
thing else had done, how pleasantly close was 
the day which would mark the end of the 
winter’s inactivity and the beginning of spring 
work at the sport he loved. 

Back in his seat before the fire, Lowell 
having gone, Clif’s thoughtful, troubled gaze 
wandered again around the pleasant room. As 
before, it was Harmon’s belongings, his pic- 
tures, his little nicknacks that riveted the lad’s 
attention. But now they did not seem to 
dominate. Instead, Clif realized all at once 
how really poor and insignificant they were 
compared to the multitude of pennants and 
photographs and souvenirs which were his 
property. Almost he could recall the ac- 
quisition of each separate thing, and Gene’s 
shy pleasure in adding something to their 
treasures or his half-anxious waiting for his 
roommate’s approval. 

With a frown, Clif tried to imagine the 
t*oom after he had gone. He winced a little at 
the barrenness of the mental picture. The 
frown deepened and he stirred uneasily. 
Presently he shot a furtive glance at a simply 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 59 


framed picture on the mantle — the picture of 
a woman of middle age with grayish hair 
and a thin, lined face that looked down on 
him out of Gene’s eyes. Her mouth was set 
in the same wistful curve that had twisted 
Gene’s lips twice this very night. 

An instant later Clif was on his feet, utter- 
ing an exclamation of exasperation. 

“Oh, hang!” he cried petulantly, pawing 
over a pile of text-books on the table. “Why 
can’t a fellow do as he likes without thinking 
of somebody else all the time?” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE TRAP 

Morning brought to the harassed Stirling 
no clearing vision with which to tackle the 
problem that confronted him. Duty and in- 
clination still pulled with about equal force. 
The evidence of Harmon’s deflection seemed 
as decisive and as insurmountable as before, 
but the possibility had come to Clif that Gene, 
with his comparative lack of stability, might 
have been drawn into the enemy’s camp 
against his will. Such a situation made his 
contemplated desertion of the weaker chap all 
the more difficult, and in the end Clif decided 
to let the matter drop for a few days at least. 
It was possible that time might develop some 
new evidence that would help in his decision. 

The storm had ceased, and it had turned 
colder in the night. Clif carried the bor- 
rowed garments to breakfast with him, and 
afterward, escorted by a crowd of sophomores, 
he took them over to Blum’s and got his over- 
coat and hat in exchange. 

60 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 61 


Hermie informed him, with much amuse- 
ment, that not five minutes after his departure 
a number of freshmen had burst in through the 
back door and exhibited great disappoint- 
ment and concern at finding no trace of their 
quarry. A consultation with the trio in front 
must have opened their eyes to the nature of 
the trick that had been played on them, for 
shortly afterward the entire crowd withdrew, 
and quiet descended on the neighborhood. 

All morning throughout the campus and 
college buildings the air tingled with a sense 
of suppressed excitement. Sophomores, usu- 
ally in groups, taunted the freshmen with sly 
gibes and digs anent their failure at kidnap- 
ping the class president. The lower classmen 
responded with bravado and significant re- 
minders that the day wasn’t over. 

“ They’ve got some scheme up their sleeves, 
sure as you live,” declared Campbell at the 
lunch table. 

“ Shucks!” scoffed Fahnestock. “ Don’t 
you believe it, Collie. I only wish they would 
stajt something interesting. They haven’t 
the brains. Look at the easy marks they were 
last fall in the rush for the gym steps and in 
the wrestling bouts. Look at the dubs they’ve 


62 


CLIF STIRLING 


been ever since. Take it from me, that busi- 
ness last night was pure accident, and they’re 
trying to let themselves down easy by silly 
bluffing.” 

Clif took little part in the discussion that 
followed. He was thinking of the rather 
startling suspicion that had come to him the 
night before, and wondering whether his new 
antipathy for Fahnestock might not have 
made him overshoot the mark. It was diffi- 
cult to imagine even a fellow of his sort cap- 
able of such a possibility. 

But somehow the idea refused to be 
downed. Throughout the meal it lingered in 
the back of Clif’s brain. When Fahnestock 
came up to him in the hall outside it flamed 
into fresh life almost at his first words. 

“ Got anything on this afternoon, old man? ” 
inquired the black-haired chap as they pulled 
on their coats. 

Stirling hesitated momentarily. “No, I 
guess not,” he returned slowly. “Have to 
look in on the caterer for a minute after 
math, but that’s about all that’s on my 
mind.” 

“How does the notion of a sleigh ride hit 
you?” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 63 


“A sleigh ride?” echoed Clif with a sur- 
prised intonation. 

“Why not? It’ll be dandy going. I de- 
cided this morning that I’d hire a cutter down 
at Lowenstein’s and spin out along the Turn- 
pike a bit. There’s been enough travel to 
pound it down by this time. Better come 
along.” 

“How'about the frosh?” Stirling suggested. 
“If they should catch us two alone it would 
be a mighty fine chance to — ” 

“Oh, suds!” broke in Fahnestock with a 
touch of irritation. “Have you got that bug 
too? There isn’t a chance in a million of their 
butting in, even if they weren’t cooped up in 
Lab from three to half-past four.” He 
shrugged his shoulders and his eyes narrowed 
slightly. 4 “0f course, though, if you’re 
scared — ” 

There was a subtly irritating quality in his 
tone, and he laughed in a manner that brought 
a slow flush creeping up into the clear bronze 
of Stirling’s face. And yet it wasn’t impulse 
that made Clif answer as he did, so much as a 
sudden cool determination to find out exactly 
to what lengths the chap before him would go. 

“I don’t know that I’m exactly scared,” he 


64 


CLIF STIRLING 


drawled composedly. “I guess, after all, 
there won't be any risk to speak of. Even if 
some of them did happen to see us starting 
out, they'd have a hard job catching up." 

“Of course," agreed Fahnestock eagerly. 
“They couldn't do it. You can get through 
with the caterer now, can't you? Good! 
Well, I'll see about the rig, and we'll chase 
down to the stable right after math." 

He departed with further expressions of 
pleasure in the proposed outing uttered in a 
fresh, breezy manner which would have put 
to rest the most confirmed suspicions. Al- 
most ashamed of himself for the doubts that 
had arisen in his mind, when he joined Fahne- 
stock after math, Clif sternly forced himself to 
an attitude as nearly unprejudiced as possible. 

Passing only a single group of freshmen, 
hustling toward the laboratory and appa- 
rently oblivious of their presence, the two 
sophs reached the livery stable and found the 
cutter ready for them. Fahnestock took the 
reins and drove out along Eastern Avenue 
toward the broad turnpike that formed the 
main thoroughfare between Stormbridge and 
the neighboring towns to the eastward. 

As he had predicted, the snow had been 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 65 


packed down enough in the middle of the road 
to make the going easy. The horse was an 
uncommonly good one, and before they had 
passed the athletic field, with its snow- 
shrouded tiers of seats showing above the 
high wall, Clif settled down amid the furs 
with a feeling almost of enjoyment. 

The sense of rapid motion pleased him. 
The nip of the keen, cold air against his face 
sent the blood tingling through his veins. 
The very look of the snow-clad countryside, 
clean, white, untracked, stretching away over 
hill and dale to seemingly illimitable distances, 
was delightful in its novelty. 

There was no wind, and the cold had kept 
the snow from melting. It clung in little 
ridges to the gaunt limbs of naked trees, soft- 
ening them into delicate tracery. The laden 
branches of pine and hemlock hung glitter- 
ing in the still air like clumps of frozen feath- 
ers. Here and there along the slopes columns 
of smoke rose straight up from snow-capped 
chimneys. Black, slow moving dots that 
must be men or animals stood out against the 
white expanse, bringing just the necessary 
touch of life and human kind to temper the 
chill aloofness of the scene. 


66 


CLIF STIRLING 


It was all very pleasant and rather soothing. 
Listening to Fahnestock’s amusing chatter, 
Clif found it almost possible to believe that 
the events of the last twenty-four hours had 
been an unpleasant dream. This phase of 
his companion was the side of him which had 
won Stirling’s liking, and Clif presently 
reached the point of wondering whether there 
was any chance of his having been mistaken 
in the man. 

He would have been glad to convince him- 
self, but somehow he couldn’t quite. If 
the voice alone had come to him out of the 
storm last night it would be easy to admit 
himself mistaken in spite of certain familiar 
inflections that struck him afterward. But 
the laugh made it impossible. It was un- 
mistakable. Each time it rang out now it 
drove the nail of conviction deeper into 
Stirling’s soul. 

But after a while he began to speculate a 
little further regarding motives. He tried to 
recall, word for word, the speech that had so 
roused his indignation. Did it really mean 
all it seemed to imply? Might it not have 
been the impulsive outburst of one momen- 
tarily grouchy over something else, venting 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 67 


his spleen at the first opportunity without 
rhyme or reason, later to regret the impulsive 
outburst? 

Clif could recall many sharp comments of 
his own which he would have been sorry to 
have others take seriously. Might not this 
be a similar case? Of course there must have 
been some underlying irritation to bring forth 
that sneer about the “ virtuous bluff,” but 
Fahnestock, while not in the least a high 
roller, was distinctly of the “good fellow” 
type. It was conceivable that he resented 
Clif s total abstention from both tobacco and 
alcoholics as a reflection on his own occasional 
lapses. 

So Stirling mulled over the situation, never 
really arriving at the point of conviction, yet 
feeling more and more that Fahnestock wasn’t 
quite as black as he had painted him at first. 
It was a sort of subconscious reflection, and 
at the same time he was taking part in the 
conversation and observing the passing pano- 
rama. 

They were well into the country by this 
time, with only here and there a farm-house 
and group of barns to break the sweep of 
white. Along the middle of the road for the 


68 


CLIF STIRLING 


width of a single team the snow was fairly 
well trodden down, but on either side it 
banked high. Several times thjey had drawn 
off into the unbroken portion to permit the 
passing of a heavier sledge coming from the 
opposite direction, but thus far nothing had 
passed them from behind. 

They were nearing a sharp bend in the 'road 
banked by a thick clump of evergreens and 
Clif was wondering whether it wasn’t almost 
time to turn back, when he noticed ahead 
another low, heavily built sledge tha’t seemed 
to be standing still. Two men had alighted 
and were bending over something on one 
side. 

For a moment Stirling thought nothing of it 
except to speculate lazily on what had broken 
down and wonder whether they would be able 
to pass without upsetting the cutter. Then, 
all at once, a vague something in the build or 
the carriage of the crouching individuals — 
perhaps merely the fact that one of them wore 
a dark plaid mackinaw — made him straighten 
abruptly and break into his companion’s airy 
chatter: 

“Pull up a minute, Les.” 

Without attempting to obey the order, 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 69 


Fahnestock turned a surprised face in ’his 
direction. “ Pull up ? ’ ’ he echoed in a puzzled 
tone. “Why, what — ” 

With a quick movement, Clif reached over, 
jerked the reins from the other's hands and 
pulled the horse to a standstill not fifty feet 
from the turn. His jaw was set, his eyes hard, 
and a round spot of color glowed in eaqh 
cheek. 

In another moment his swift suspicion 
flamed into certainty as a throng of fellows 
on. snpwshoes, headed by the freshman, Jim 
Harding, who had been pointed out to Clif 
that morning, burst from the clump of ever- 
greens and ran toward them. 


CHAPTER VIII 


ANOTHER CLOSE CALL 

The way ahead was blocked. Clif could 
not whip up the chafing horse and dash past 
the oncoming freshmen because of the ob- 
structing sledge. He could not turn round 
without upsetting in the deep snow. If that 
were to happen before they could right the 
sleigh, the enemy would be upon them. 

Only one chance remained, and that a slim 
one. Twenty feet or so ahead a narrow track, 
made by a small snow-plow such as farmers 
use, led from the turnpike between twin rows 
of elms to a group of farm buildings nestling 
in the valley, warmly red against the white 
background. 

Clif grasped this single chance, snatching 
the whip from its socket and dealing the horse 
a sharp cut. With a snort, the animal leaped 
forward, and dashed down the turnpike, head- 
ing for the onrushing freshmen, who seemed 
to hesitate an instant and then spread out on 

70 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 71 


the sides of the road, trusting to the sledge 
to block the middle. 

Clif had no intention of running that gaunt- 
let. Bending forward a little, face grim, lips 
set, the reins tightly gripped in either hand, 
he let the horse have his head until they were 
nearly opposite the farm road. Then he 
reined to the left, taking the curve, almost 
at top speed. 

There was a bump, a stifled exclamation 
from Fahnestock, an ominous tilting of the 
cutter. In desperation Clif flung himself 
across the lap of his companion to bring his 
weight upon the other side. A moment later 
both runners were sliding evenly over the 
crisp snow. The elms flicked by on either 
side. From behind a shout of mingled amaze- 
ment and dismay rose from the startled 
freshmen. 

Stirling’s set jaws did not relax. They had 
taken the first trick, but the narrow road led 
merely to the farm buildings. There was 
nothing beyond save the railroad track and a 
stretch of wild and scrubby swamp land. 
They were running into a cul-de-sac from 
which there was no hope at all of escaping in 
the cutter. They might abandon that and 


72 


CLIF STIRLING 


try to get away on foot, but, without snow- 
shoes, what chance had they of long out- 
distancing their pursuers? 

Even the railroad grade, level and partially 
cleared, offered little hope. Something like 
a mile back it crossed the Turnpike, and the 
moment their design was seen the freshmen 
would undoubtedly send part of their forces 
back by the sledge to head them off. 

By this time Clif was in a boiling fury at 
the incredible treachery of the fellow who sat 
so stiff and silent beside him. Too late he 
realized that the whole thing must have been 
deliberately planned. This was the wonder- 
ful scheme of Harding’s he had heard dis- 
cussed last night — the scheme which was so 
certain to result in his capture. This was the 
motive for Fahnestock’s cutter ride; the reason 
why he had been so eager and insistent for 
Stirling’s company; the cause of his extra- 
ordinary amiability. 

In those first few moments of anger Clif 
would have given something for a free hand 
with which to smash the fellow in the face. 
He conquered the desire, but when he spoke 
his voice was hard and harsh and a little in- 
distinct. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 73 


“Are they following?” he asked curtly, 
not daring to turn his eyes from the racing 
horse's path. 

Fahnestock glanced back. “Yes,” he an- 
swered. “They're coming along the road, 
and some are taking a short cut over the 
field.” 

Clif made no comment. A moment later 
they whirled past the farm-house and on to- 
ward the cluster of red barns. He was pulling 
the animal up a little now and darting apprais- 
ing glances to right and left. But there was 
no encouragement in what met his gaze, no 
apparent possibility of egress from the cluster 
of out-buildings. 

“It's the track for mine,” he decided with a 
stubborn tightening of the lips. “I'm hanged 
if I sit here like a dummy until they come and 
grab me!” 

A little to the right, between a corn-crib 
and one of the smaller barns, a narrow, fenced- 
in lane led down through gates to a pasture 
beyond the track. It was open now, and with 
the idea of getting as far as possible before 
abandoning the cutter, Clif drove into it, 
pulling up on the edge of the final sharp de- 
scent. He had flung the robe off his knees, on 


74 


CLIF STIRLING 


the point of leaping to the ground, when all at 
once he paused and caught his breath with a 
sharp intake. 

For a long moment he sat motionless on the 
edge of the seat, his eager, speculative gaze 
darting along the twin lines of polished steel 
just peeping through the thin layer of snow 
that had escaped the scraper. Presently his 
eyes flashed back again to a brief study of the 
protected crossing below. Then he jerked 
out his watch and consulted it. Finally he 
settled back into his seat and picked up the 
reins. 

“Pm going to take the track as far as the 
turnpike crossing,” he announced brusquely, 
with a sidelong glance at his companion. 
“Do you want to come along, or will you wait 
for your — for the freshmen?” 

Fahnestock stared in amazement. “Take 
the track!” he cried. “Why, how — ” 

“In the cutter, of course!” snapped Stir- 
ling. The shouts of the pursuing fellows 
sounded perilously close. “Are you coming 
or not? Quick!” 

Fahnestock stiffened, and a sudden “yes” 
fell from his lips. The word was barely out 
of his mouth before Clif urged the horse for- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 75 

ward into the deep, unbroken snow below the 
crest. 

For a few moments it was nip and tuck. 
The animal snorted, stumbled, slowed up 
almost to a stop. Clif bent forward with 
soothing words, and a skilful, guiding hand 
on the reins piloted the animal down the slope, 
around the obstructing wooden barriers and, 
with much jolting, out on to the level rail- 
road grade. 

During the descent Lester Fahnestock had 
not uttered a word. Now he spoke: 

“If a train should come along — ” he began 
impulsively. Then he bit his lip. 

“One won't,” coldly assured Stirling. 
“The first passenger is the five-eight. We 
could hear a freight engine a mile or two away, 
and have plenty of time to pull off into the 
drifts. Still, if you’d like to get out — ” 

“Why should I?” snapped the other with 
some tartness. “You don’t suppose I’m any 
more anxious to be caught than you are, do 
you?” 

“I’ve given up supposing anything,” re- 
turned Clif meaningly. “Hold fast.” 

He chirped. The horse started forward at 
a trot, dragging the sleigh over the ties with 


76 


CLIF STIRLING 


much less jolting than Clif had expected. 
One runner slid close to the outside edge of 
one rail, the other not far from the inside 
edge of the other rail, the horse trotting be- 
tween. The going was surprisingly smooth 
and easy, excepting at occasional spots where 
the snow spread too thinly on the ties. 

As the pursuing freshmen surged up over 
the crest of the little hillock they stopped with 
one accord and stared, with sagging jaws. 
Then a discordant shout arose, and the group 
burst into its component parts. Some dashed 
down to the track and started determinedly 
after the departing cutter, on foot; others 
turned abruptly and disappeared the way they 
had come, presumably with the idea of trying 
to cut off the fugitives by the road. 

They might all have spared themselves the 
effort. Without a hitch, with scarcely a jolt 
or scrape, Clif drove to the point where rail- 
road and turnpike crossed. Bumping over 
into the latter, he kept straight on toward 
town. 

They had hardly made the last turn when 
Fahnestock leaned back with a mirthful 
chuckle. 

“That was great work, old man!” he ex- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 77 


claimed gleefully. “I never saw anything 
like it. I thought sure we were pinched. 
And then to have you slip us out of the mess 
as neatly as if we’d stepped aboard an aero- 
plane! Such a sell for the frosh, too! Gee 
whilikins! I’d like to have seen their faces 
when they discovered we’d taken to the 
rails.” 

He laughed delightedly, but when Stirling 
failed to join in his mirth he sobered down and 
turned quickly to his silent companion. “I 
guess that was one on me,” he said in a tone 
half bantering, half serious. “I’m the goat, 
sure enough. But you must admit it was 
bad luck to chance on that gang at just that 
spot. I don’t understand to this minute how 
on earth so many of them got off to go snow- 
shoeing.” 

“You might ask your friend, Harding,” 
suggested Clif, retaining his composure with 
difficulty in the face of such amazing assur- 
ance. 

Fahnestock wrinkled his forehead. “ Hard- 
ing?” he repeated blankly. “Harding? Oh! 
You mean that chap you were talking about 
last night at dinner. He isn’t my friend. I 
don’t know him. Was he there?” 


78 


CLIF STIRLING 


Stirling nodded, unwilling to trust himself 
to speak a reply. 

Fahnestock’s sudden and complete recovery 
of his self-assurance irritated his companion. 
If he had been subdued or silent, as at first, or 
shown the slightest trace of embarrassment 
in the presence of the fellow he had plotted 
against, Clif’s resentment might not have been 
so great. As it was, he had an almost irresist- 
able impulse to flame out at Fahnestock in a 
way which would let the fellow know his game 
wasn’t in the least deceptive. 

With the words trembling on his lips, Stir- 
ling experienced a revulsion of feeling. After 
all, what was the use? He knew, but un- 
fortunately he had no proof. Fahnestock 
would simply deny collusion with the fresh- 
men and declare the encounter a coincidence, 
as he had practically been doing for ten min- 
utes past or longer. And the great bulk of 
his classmates would believe him. Aside 
from being influenced by his convincing man- 
ner, they would look for the deep, abiding 
motive that must underlie so striking a piece 
of treachery. Like Clif himself, they would 
fail to find it. 

“But I’ll unearth it before I’m through,” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 79 

thought the angry fellow as they sped down 
Eastern Avenue toward the livery stable. 
“HI show him up publicly for just what he 
is!” 

It was no part of his plan to start the hunt 
for evidence that very day. Chance alone 
led him past the registrar’s office after he had 
parted from his companion, and planted in his 
mind the sudden query that sent him inside 
to consult the records. Collie Campbell had 
stated that Harding came from Indiana, and 
a few minutes’ search on Clif’s part proved 
that he was right. In the card index the 
residence of John Russell Harding was set 
down as Crown Point, Indiana. 

With a grim smile, Stirling pulled open 
another drawer and searched under the F’s. 
There was scarcely any need to do so, but he 
wanted official confirmation of his recollection 
that this was likewise Lester Fahnestock’s 
home town. When he had found it his smile 
grew grimmer, and on reaching his rooms his 
first act was to look up the town in an atlas. 

“Two thousand population!” he com- 
mented, slamming the book shut. “And yet 
they don’t know each other!” His lips curled. 
“Well, that’s one lie nailed, anyhow.” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE BREATH OF SLANDER 

The failure of the second freshmen attempt 
to kidnap the soph president did not deter 
those verdant but persistent youths from 
gathering toward dusk in force before the 
hotel in which the banquet was to be held. 
They were swarming about both entrances 
long before six o’clock, vowing that this time 
they would succeed or break up the affair. 

Word was quickly conveyed to the sophs 
of their movements and a plan evolved for 
their discomfiture. A crowd of accommodat- 
ing seniors, ready and eager to take part in 
the affair, which by this time occupied the 
attention of the entire college, was pressed 
into service. Muffled in long coats, their hat 
brims turned down and their collars turned up 
to avoid recognition as far as possible, they 
approached the front entrance of the hotel in 
a mass, waving sophomore flags and defiantly 
shouting the sophomore yells. 

80 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 81 


The scheme worked. At once the fresh- 
men guarding the side door rushed around to 
back up their comrades in front. Whereupon 
the real sophomores emerged from a side 
street scarcely a block distant, where they had 
been waiting, and filed quietly through the 
deserted portal into the banquet hall. The 
deception was quickly discovered, but before 
the angry freshmen could swarm back to the 
side entrance they were too late for anything 
save the capture of three or four unimpor- 
tant second year men whose tardiness had 
kept them behind the main body. 

It was almost too easy. “Like taking 
candy from a kid,” disappointedly commented 
one fellow, who would have preferred some- 
thing of a more strenuous nature as an ap- 
petizer. 

The majority, however, were well pleased. 
Stormbridge traditions, while they gave great 
latitude to the assaulting class, constrained its 
rivals to a certain degree of passiveness. Of 
course as a last resort force was permissible, 
but it was considered rather crude, and much 
more honor was to be gained by successful 
strategy. 

The dinner was a success, well planned and 
6 


82 


CLIF STIRLING 


attractively carried out. To the first course 
or two zest and piquancy were given by the 
groans and shouts of defiance from the out- 
witted freshmen floating up from the street 
below. But these quickly ceased; it wasn’t at 
all the sort of night to linger in the cold. 
Thereafter the diners devoted themselves 
exclusively to the very good things that were 
set before them. 

There was much talk and laughter and 
joshing. A general atmosphere of good fel- 
lowship overspread it all. Later there were 
speeches, most of them a bit halting and 
amateurish. But all were frantically ap- 
plauded, and the most aged joke was greeted 
with joyous rapture, as befitted an old friend. 

Decidedly the most finished, easy speaker 
of the evening was Lester Fahnestock. He 
had the gift of talking in public — that easy, 
colloquial manner which is never hampered 
by embarrassment, never at a loss for a word. 
After making several telling hits, to Clif’s 
surprise he launched into an amusing account 
of their brush with the freshmen that after- 
noon. 

He told it well, giving Stirling full credit for 
their dramatic escape, and he soon had his 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 83 


audience convulsed at the delightful picture 
of freshmen discomfiture. Nevertheless, Clif 
was vaguely annoyed that he should take it on 
himself to introduce at this time and place a 
matter that Stirling had refrained from men- 
tioning to anyone. 

This annoyance deepened to irritation when 
Clif realized that the speaker was not only 
suppressing the fact of the scheme’s origina- 
tion in his own brain, but, in some subtle 
manner, was giving the impression that his 
companion had been equally to blame for 
what now seemed a decidedly hair-brained 
adventure — an adventure which the class 
president, especially, in view of his office and 
his importance at the banquet, should never 
have undertaken. 

It was done so cleverly and unobtrusively 
that Clif was not certain of the impression 
produced until Dick Madison, who sat be- 
side him, turned toward him a face still 
wreathed in smiles at the denouement, yet 
bearing a faint, underlying expression of dis- 
approval. 

“That was clever work, old man,” he com- 
mented. “But you sure were taking chances 
to start off like that the day of the banquet. 


84 


CLIF STIRLING 


Supposing there hadn’t been any way out of 
that barnyard! They’d have nailed you, 
cold.” 

Though strongly tempted to make a few 
pithy additions to the story, Clif quelled the 
impulse. He was too proud to show even the 
appearance of avoiding responsibility. In a 
way he really was to blame for having yielded 
to Fahnestock’s persuasions. 

As for the more vital matter of the latter’s 
treachery, there wasn’t a scrap of real proof. 
Fahnestock had adroitly given the impression 
that the presence of the freshmen was acci- 
dental, and, though there was some discussion 
as to how so many of them had happened to 
cut Lab, the general opinion was that this 
really didn’t matter as long as their attempted 
kidnapping had failed. 

“If his object is to get me in bad with the 
crowd,” thought Clif, after he had lightly 
replied to Madison’s remark, “ he’ll have to 
be a whole lot smarter than he’s been so far. 
I wonder if that is what he’s up to?” 

After a moment of frowning meditation his 
face cleared. “It can’t be done!” he decided. 
“I don’t believe I’ve got anything to worry 
over where he’s concerned. Nobody can 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 85 


permanently hurt a fellow’s reputation but 
himself.” 

It seemed like the most self-evident asser- 
tion, incapable of contradiction. Yet within 
forty-eight hours Stirling was to find himself 
shocked and startled into a momentary doubt 
of its absoluteness. He had just left the 
library, whither he had gone to consult a 
reference mentioned in the last lecture, and 
was heading for Hackett when a familiar hail 
made him pause and glance back. Digby 
Lowell was hurrying to overtake him. 

“ How’s the boy?” said the senior, passing 
an arm through Clif’s and accommodating 
his step to the younger chap’s. “All through 
for the morning? I’ll trot along as far as 
your rooms, then. Made up your mind yet 
about what we were talking over the other 
night?” 

Clif hadn’t. For the past two days he had 
found his roommate excessively trying, with 
his inexplicable absences which were never dis- 
cussed, his furtive air, his absurd and quite 
futile attempts to act as if there wasn’t some- 
thing on his mind. 

On the other hand, there were rare spells 
when he was the same old Gene, bright, laugh- 


86 


CLIF STIRLING 


ing, almost annoyingly eager for Stirling’s ap- 
proval. At one moment Clif would be ready 
to pack up and move over to the frat house 
that very day; an hour later, possibly, some 
little minor note in Harmon’s voice or a shy, 
wistful glance from the little chap’s eyes 
turned him quite around and made him feel 
that he would be a cheap fellow to desert his 
chum. 

“I’m sorry, Dig,” he answered regretfully. 
“I haven’t — quite. It’s a bit hard, and you 
said there would be plenty of time.” 

“Take all the time you want,” agreed the 
other. There was a pause before he went on 
in that elaborately casual manner which in- 
variably defeats its purpose: “Oh, by the 
way, old man, I heard something — I dare say 
it’s my fault for not having mentioned the 
views of the fraternity on the subject of — er — 
drinking and saloons and all that sort of thing. 
But I had an idea you were an abstainer, and 
so I don’t believe I ever brought the matter 
up.” 

Clif’s jaw, which had sagged with surprise 
at the beginning of this amazing speech, 
snapped shut. “I don’t drink! I never 
have!” he retorted in a voice that matched 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 87 


the movement. “ What are you talking about, 
Dig?” 

Lowell’s eyes widened. “Oh! You mean 
you weren’t — Well, I’m glad. I thought 
there was something funny about the story, 
and I told Cuth so. But even if you weren’t 
taking a drink — You mustn’t take what I 
say amiss, old chap,” he interpolated, moved 
possibly by a sidelong glance at Stirling’s 
face. “I’m not criticizing your actions ex- 
actly, but all this hue and cry against fraterni- 
ties has made it necessary for us to be especi- 
ally careful to avoid even the appearance of 
dissipation. Of course there was no actual 
harm in your looking in at Tommy’s saloon 
the other night, but it’s the sort of thing that 
enables people to make unpleasant insinua- 
tions, just as they seem to have done in the 
present instance. Get me?” 


CHAPTER X 

EVERYTHING WRONG 

They had stopped in front of Hackett 
Hall. Without realizing it, Clif drew away 
from his companion. For a few seconds he 
did not speak. A dull flush glowed in his 
cheeks. 

“Where’d you hear that yarn, Dig?” he 
asked presently in a brittle voice. 

“Why — er — Cuthbert told me,” returned 
Lowell slowly. “He asked me if — ” 

“Who’d he get it from?” interrupted 
Stirling. 

“Haven’t an idea. I don’t think he said, 
except that he heard it last night. You mean 
it isn’t — true?” 

“It’s a lie!” 

Though he did not voice it, Clif’s tones told 
of his surprise that Lowell should have given 
a moment’s credence to the slander. 

“ I’ve never been inside Tommy’s oranother 
saloon in Stormbridge,” he asserted. “What 
88 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 89 


should I go there for? Eve got better ways 
of spending my time than loafing in such 
places.” 

Lowell flushed a little, realizing, perhaps, 
that he had been too quick in jumping at 
conclusions. 

“ Don’t take my head off, old man,” he 
begged, with his whimsical smile. “There 
are plenty of perfectly innocent causes that 
would take a fellow into a saloon. Naturally, 
that's the only way I thought of your being 
there. It never occurred to me that the 
whole yarn was a lie. As a rule, people don't 
go round making up such stories out of whole 
cloth. Of course it wasn't Cuth. I wonder 
who told — By Jove! I believe he said he'd 
heard it from two sources.” 

Lowell's eyes flashed and his handsome 
face took on a look of indignation. “It looks 
to me as if some scoundrel was deliberately 
spreading this lie about. It's up to us to nail 
it, Clif. Suppose we hunt up Cuth right 
away and — ” He broke off, his glance 
sweeping up to the clock in the library tower. 
“The dickens! It's too late now. We'll 
have to wait till after lunch. Can you come 
over to the house at half-past one?” 


90 


CLIF STIRLING 


Clif nodded. His face was still a bit 
flushed, but he had recovered his self-control. 
Secretly he was a little ashamed of his flare-up. 
After all, the matter was too trivial to have 
made such a fuss about. It would be a simple 
business to trace the falsehood to its source 
and nail it fast. He' promised himself, with 
a grim straightening of his lips, that this time 
the nailing process would be satisfying and 
complete. 

But when he had made brief arrangements 
to meet the senior after lunch and passed on 
into the dormitory, he remembered with a 
sudden sense of shock that somebody had be- 
lieved the lie, after all. No less a person than 
Digby Lowell, his friend and fraternity 
brother, had given it sufficient credence to 
take him to task about it. And if such a man 
had not been moved, instantly and without 
question, to treat it as a bare-faced slander, 
what would be the attitude of the remainder 
of his classmates? 

Raw over what seemed so incomprehensible 
a lack of faith, Clif stamped up the stairs and 
flung open the door with a vehemence that 
made Harmon jump nervously and drop the 
book he was holding. Clif stood frowning 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 91 

grouchily, while the pink-cheeked fellow 
stooped hurriedly to retrieve the fallen volume. 
Then, with scarcely a thought save to relieve 
the pressure and pour out some of the irrita- 
tion that oppressed him, Stirling burst out: 

“Say, Gene, have you heard any stories 
about my being seen larking it down at 
Tommy’s saloon last Tuesday night?” 

The effect of the question on the high-strung 
Harmon was surprising. At first he stood like 
one petrified, his face white as a sheet of 
paper, his eyes, wide, staring, almost black, 
fixed with frightened bewilderment on his 
chum. Then one hand fluttered up in that 
familiar gesture until the shaking fingers 
touched his lips. 

“You?” he burst out in a queer, strained 
voice. “ You?” The blood rushed back into 
his face, turning it crimson. “Why, Clif, 
what do you — mean?” 

He was the picture of guilt. His conster- 
nation was so apparent that Stirling’s lips 
curled. With an abrupt movement of aver- 
sion, he turned away. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said with a kind of 
hard sarcasm. “Since you don’t know what 
I mean, you evidently haven’t heard.” 


92 


CLIF STIRLING 


He made no further comment. Indeed, he 
scarcely glanced again at Harmon as he made 
ready for luncheon. He was sore and dis- 
gruntled against all mankind, and it was a 
distinct relief when Gene falteringly told him 
he had a headache and did not want any 
lunch. Ordinarily he would have been moved 
to sympathetic inquiry and helpful sugges- 
tion. Now he merely expressed a perfunctory 
regret, and made haste to depart. 

A brisk walk through sharp, bracing air 
cleared away some of the gloom that op- 
pressed him. The sight of Fahnestock’s 
vacant chair helped still more to restore him 
to his usual optimistic frame of mind. He 
did not wish to have an out-and-out break 
with the fellow until he knew just where he 
stood. In his present state of mind it would 
have been extremely difficult to treat him 
with even common decency. He was very 
glad, therefore, that the Delta Chi’s — Wick 
had lost no time proclaiming to the table at 
large that this closest rival of Theta Gamma 
was “ rushing Les to beat the cars” — had 
chosen to-day to invite him to lunch. 

The meal was almost over when Stirling was 
summoned to the telephone by Dig Lowell. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 93 

“I’m afraid we’ll have to call that business 
off for to-day,” the senior informed him. 
“ Sandy tells me Cuth’s gone to the city to 
hunt up some bats and things. It’s the only 
day he can take the whole afternoon off with- 
out cuts, and he may stay over Sunday. 
You’d better come over anyhow, old man. 
There’ll probably be a bunch here.” 

Clif hesitated a moment. “Well, maybe I 
will,” he said briefly. “But don’t count on 
me early. If I come, it probably won’t be 
till around four or so.” 

In reality he wasn’t very keen about seeing 
Lowell or any other of the fellows, in his 
present mood. He was disappointed at Cuth- 
bert’s absence, and he chafed not a little at 
this enforced delay in getting at the bottom 
of the mystery. Much of the bitterness and 
resentment he had thrown off returned. As a 
result, he sallied forth directly after lunch for 
a long and solitary tramp. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE SHOCK 

He was gone until almost dusk, and re- 
turned physically tired but mentally braced 
up and refreshed with the conviction that he 
had been making a mountain out of a mole 
hill. 

Optimistic and even-tempered, CliFs burst 
of anger against Lester Fahnestock had 
changed to a feeling of contempt and disgust. 
The deliberate, cold-blooded treachery of the 
fellow filled him with repugnance. But it 
also struck him as amazingly futile. What 
real harm could it possibly accomplish? It 
was absurd to suppose that the large measure 
of popularity which had been accorded to 
Stirling in his year and a half of college life 
could be undermined by mere lies. Clif had 
only to live his life as he had always lived it, 
straight, decent,, playing the part in athletics 
and college activities he had always played; 
this in itself must successfully down any 

94 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 95 


vague calumnies that might be brought 
against his name. 

Of course, he still meant to have it out with 
Fahnestock; that was essential to self-respect, 
if nothing more. Having traced back the 
silly accusation to its source, he would expose 
the fellow, and so make him powerless for 
any further annoyance. That would be the 
proper and dignified manner of showing his 
contempt; it would be infinitely better and 
more effective than any impulsive punching 
of heads or similar brawling. 

“I suppose Jack wouldn’t approve at all,” 
he thought, with a half smile. “He’d have 
mixed up in a rough and tumble scrap long 
ago. This is really the better way.” 

The thought of his impulsive younger 
brother made Clif realize that, save for a 
casual encounter or two on the campus, he 
hadn’t seen him for more than a week. The 
truth was that the presence of this younger 
Stirling in Stormbridge had not proved an 
unmixed joy to Clif. 

Jack was the sort of chap popularly but 
somewhat vaguely termed “ difficult.” Hot- 
headed, highly keyed, he plunged into this and 
that without a glance ahead, usually to find 


96 


CLIF STIRLING 


himself floundering to the neck before he 
realized it. Supreme faith in his own judg- 
ment, with a corresponding intolerance of ad- 
vice and criticism, were prominent character- 
istics that made him hard to handle. He had 
been a more or less continuous worry to his 
parents. 

Nevertheless, the boy was good-hearted 
and generous to a degree, ready and willing 
to share his last cent with a friend. Should 
the need arise, he would strip the coat off his 
back if he thought someone else required it 
more than he. A brilliant but erratic student, 
he fluctuated from top to bottom of his classes, 
according to the amount of time he gave his 
books. Study he considered far from the 
most important thing in life. 

He was an equally brilliant athlete, but the 
sort of fellow whose intolerance of training 
and discipline made him not altogether to be 
depended on. Still it must be said that he 
could often overcome any lack of physical 
fitness or training by a superabundant supply 
of nerve. His very entrance into Stormbridge 
last fall had been accomplished only by the 
exercise of the sternest parental authority. 
From the first he had protested vehemently. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 97 


This, however, was not from any lack of fond- 
ness for Clif, whom he greatly admired, but 
because he wanted, as he expressed it, to 
stand on his own feet. 

“I don't want to go to a place where I’ll be 
known merely as Clif Stirling’s brother,” he 
had objected. “I don’t want to be let into 
frats and things and have fellows decent to me 
just because I am his brother. I don’t want 
to be hitched to anybody’s coat-tails. I’d 
rather go to Dartmore or some other college 
where I’d be sure to get only what was coming 
to me for myself alone.” 

That was precisely what Mr. Stirling ob- 
jected to; he could not trust the boy’s judg- 
ment as he had learned to trust the elder 
brother’s. He wanted Jack to be where the 
latter could keep an eye on him and prevent 
him, if possible, from getting into scrapes. 
So in the end the younger lad had to give in. 
But he appeared at Stormbridge on the open- 
ing day as sullen and disgruntled a freshman 
as could be found in the whole confines of the 
college town. 

The mood didn’t last. With his usual im- 
petuosity, Jack quickly threw off his grouch, 
soon becoming keenly enthusiastic over every- 

7 


98 


CLIF STIRLING 


thing. But he made it evident at once that 
he proposed to “live his own life,” as he 
expressed it. 

“I want to make my own friends and my 
own way, old chap,” he told Clif. “I don’t 
want you fussing about me all the time. If 
you do that, pretty quick the fellows will be 
calling me Sissy or something equally pleas- 
ant.” 

No more impossible appellation for the 
young firebrand could be conceived, and Clif 
smiled at its incongruity. However, it was 
a smile that hid a touch of anxiety. Knowing 
his brother as he did, he realized that the more 
he exercised authority, or even seemed to 
wield it, the more Jack would be impelled to 
show his independence by harum-scarum 
pranks and escapades. Yet Clif was not 
quite certain his brother could be trusted to 
his own devices. 

At first Clif tried the scheme of seeming to 
let Jack go his own way while he was really 
keeping a pretty sharp eye on him. But the 
younger chap was not long deceived, and soon 
events seemed to prove to his brother the un- 
wisdom of this policy. Finally Clif decided 
to let the boy work out his own salvation — as 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 99 


much, that is, as any college chap is permitted 
to do. It was really allowing him no more 
freedom than the majority of his classmates 
possessed, with the advantage of an influential 
big brother to help pull him out if he got over 
his head into mischief. 

Somewhat to that big brother’s surprise, 
he had not yet been called on to perform the 
life-saving act. Giving Jack his own way 
seemed to have more or less the effect of put- 
ting him on his honor. It had obliged him to 
prove that his way was the best. He plunged 
into all his class activities and took part in 
various sorts of escapades common to all 
freshmen, but of no more than the ordinary 
character and calibre. Save that he frivoled 
away a lot of time, which had to be made up 
by spells of feverish grinding before exams, 
Clif could find nothing really to criticize in 
the lad’s behavior. He did wish Jack might 
have chosen his intimates from almost any 
other crowd than the idle rich set whose only 
object in life appeared to be to have a good 
time, but he knew the danger of trying to in- 
terfere. Besides, he felt that the boy’s own 
keen enthusiasm would prevent him from de- 
generating into the same type of college idler. 


100 


CLIF STIRLING 


Clif now treated his brother practically as 
he did any of the other fellows he knew well 
and liked. They met nearly every day on the 
campus, and every now and then Clif dropped 
around to the other’s rooms. Less frequently 
Jack looked in at the suite in. Hackett. Per- 
haps at no other time since the beginning of 
the college year had the older chap let quite 
so many days elapse between his visits, and 
he realized it now with a twinge of conscience. 

“ Guess I’ll cut the frat and chase around 
to Jack’s instead,” he decided as he entered 
the outskirts of the town. “He’s generally* 
in about now.” 

The freshman roomed, well down on King 
Street, in a big, old-fashioned house set a little 
back from the street. He was comfortably 
fixed in a large square back room on the second 
floor. An alcove for his bed gave him prac- 
tically all the conveniences of a separate sit- 
ting room, without the added cost — an item 
to be considered, since he had chosen to be 
alone. 

Clif walked briskly along Eastern Avenue, 
intending to turn down King Street past 
Blum’s store. Three blocks before the store 
was reached he was seized with a sudden 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 101 


whimsical impulse to take a look at the ex- 
terior of the notorious Tommy McKeown’s 
establishment, which was known familiarly 
in the college purlieus and elsewhere as 
“Tommy’s.” 

“Since it’s supposed to be one of my favor- 
ite hanging-out places,” he murmured with a 
touch of grim humor, “it mightn’t be a bad 
idea for me to see what it looks like.” 

He had a vague notion that it stood on 
Ralston Street, a block down from Eastern 
Avenue. Since this would be as easy a route 
as any to Jack’s, he took it. 

The early winter twilight had fallen, but 
before he had gone half a block his eye caught 
the gaudy sign on the corner building. Some- 
how, the very sight of the place roused in him 
a faint disgust; and when the swinging doors 
moved outward to reveal three trim, well- 
groomed, youthful figures that looked like 
college men Clif hesitated instinctively. 

“If they see me here they’ll be having me in 
the saloon again to-night,” was his inward 
comment. 

But the trio did not come his way. Arm 
in arm, laughing a bit boisterously, they dis- 
appeared around the corner. Stirling fol- 


102 


CLIF STIRLING 


lowed in their wake. At the juncture of King 
Street they separated with more laughter and 
loud talking, two turning to the right. The 
other crossed the street and went on down 
King. 

A little way behind him, Stirling frowned 
over the pity of it, wondering why the college 
authorities hadn’t power to rout out such 
places as McKeown’s. Unconsciously he in- 
creased his pace. A moment later his eyes 
took on a freshly troubled look as he saw the 
chap ahead push through the swinging gate 
at the corner house, run up the walk and 
mount the steps to the wide veranda. 

“ Jingoes!” he muttered, uncomfortably. 
“He rooms in the same house with Jack. 
I hope they’re not chummy.” 

Still he did not realize the truth. He was 
totally unprepared when the door swung 
open and the gas light streamed out full on 
the flushed face of his own brother. 


CHAPTER XII 
clif’s eyes are opened 

Clif stood motionless on the sidewalk, his 
mind a wild turmoil of dismay and incredul- 
ity. He tried to tell himself that he had 
made a mistake and that it couldn’t be Jack 
he had seen pass through that door. How- 
ever, all the time that his heart throbbed with 
passionate, insistant denial his brain backed 
up the evidence of his eyesight. 

It was Jack. There was no room for doubt. 
Nor could he find solace in the hope that his 
brother might not have been one of the trio 
he had seen emerging a little while ago from 
the saloon. He had followed the boy without 
once losing sight of him. 

He moved his shoulders with an odd gesture, 
as if trying to throw off an invisible weight. 
A quiver of pain cut through the bewilder- 
ment of his face, twisting his lips grotesquely 
for an instant. It vanished swiftly, leaving 
his face blank with the deliberate blankness of 
a curtain drawn across something it is neces- 
103 


104 


CLIF STIRLING 


sary to hide. He walked quickly up the 
steps and into the house. 

Without glancing to right or left, he went 
on up the stairs. At the top he paused, one 
hand still touching the rail Why shouldn't 
Jack have been in that saloon for one of those 
harmless purposes Dig Lowell had mentioned 
this very morning? Wasn't it possible he 
had simply gone in with some of the fellows 
to play a game of pool? 

There was a faint gleam of hope in Clif's 
eyes as he stepped forward and rapped on the 
door. Then, according to his habit, he pushed 
it open without waiting for an invitation. 

Jack Stirling, minus his overcoat but with 
his cap still set rakishly on his mass of dark 
hair, stood before the mantle lighting a 
cigarette. At the sight of his brother his 
hand slid behind him with a swift, instinctive 
movement of concealment. It jerked into 
sight an instant later, and he set the paper 
tube between his lips and took a long, defiant 
puff. 

“ Hello, Clif!" he said with a boisterous- 
ness that failed to hide his embarrassment. 
“ How's the old man? Sit down and rest 
your face and hands." 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 105 


“ Hello, Jacko,” returned Clif composedly. 
“I was in the neighborhood, so I thought Fd 
drop in. How goes it?” 

Smiling a little, he closed the door and 
crossed the room with his characteristic lithe 
yet deliberate tread. Stopping, he regarded 
his brother with a glance of whimsical good 
humor. He continued to smile, though the 
whiff of alcohol he caught turned him sick as 
might the tang of ether. It was true — all 
true! He had not imagined a tithe too much! 

“Oh, so-so,” answered Jack, nervously 
flicking the glowing end of his cigarette and 
avoiding his brother’s glance. “I — er — just 
came in. Beastly stupid town in winter; not 
a thing to do. By the way, haven’t seen you 
since you turned those cute tricks on us. 
They were neat, all right. I’ll have to admit 
that, even if I am a fresh.” 

Clif felt as if his face was stretched stiffly in 
a hideous leer. The impulse to turn his back 
was uncontrollable, and he yielded to it, 
slipping out of his coat by way of an excuse. 

“I had, luck, that’s all,” he drawled, tossing 
the garment on a chair and dropping down 
upon another. “Most anybody could — ” 

“Luck!” scoffed Jack vehemently. “It 


106 


CLIF STIRLING 


was clever brain work and good nerve. It 
took sand to drive over that railroad track, 
believe me! You’re too modest, old man.” 

“Oh, you were there, then?” murmured the 
sophomore, resting an elbow on the table and 
shading his eyes with his hand. 

Back of the calm, good-humored tolerance 
in his face was a seething turmoil of doubt and 
self-reproach. How long had this been going 
on? How far had it gone? He was to blame 
for it all. He should have kept a better 
watch on Jack, instead of letting him go his 
own way. 

Looking at his brother, he seemed to see 
for the first time all the changes a half-year of 
independence had brought. It was as if they 
had all piled up in a single week; as if some 
magician’s wand had wrought a transforma- 
tion. A week ago he had been the old Jack; 
to-night he was almost like a stranger. 

Quietly Clif listened to the boy’s account 
of the freshman side of the affair, even inter- 
jecting now and then a brief remark or ques- 
tion. But all the time he was striving to 
think of some plan, some means of pulling the 
boy up before it was too late. Threats would 
be of no avail, he knew; pleading, equally 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 107 

futile. Jack would meet the first with sullen 
obstinacy, the second with the time-worn 
fallacy that what he was doing wouldn’t 
hurt anybody. Even the withdrawal of the 
boy from college — a step their father would 
doubtless take were he informed of the facts 
— would be useless. There was every chance 
that rage and humiliation would make Jack 
cling to his bad habits out of sheer spite, and 
pave the way for worse. 

What qualities of Jack’s were susceptible 
to influence: his generosity? his pride? his 
affections? That was the key: his affections. 
His fondness for the elder brother, to whom 
he had always looked up with pride and ad- 
miration! Would that still move him? 

Some of the strain vanished from Clif’s 
eyes. In its place came a keen, intent specu- 
lation. With every sense alert, he watched 
Jack fumble in a pasteboard box and pull out 
another cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed in a 
nervous, jerky, embarrassed way. In a flash 
the answer came to Clif. 

“You’re not very hospitable,” drawled the 
older chap a moment later. “Or is that your 
last?” 

Jack stared. “Hospitable?” he echoed, 


108 


CLIF STIRLING 


puzzled. “My last? What the deuce do 
you — ” He stared incredulously from the 
cigarette in his hand to his brother’s face. 
“ You don’t mean — this?” he muttered, flush- 
ing. 

“Why not?” 

“Why, I — I don’t know. No reason speci- 
ally. Only I didn’t know you smoked. I 
thought you — Well, training, and all that 
sort of thing, you know.” 

Clif smiled composedly. “It is more or 
less bunk, I suppose. Certainly it’s an awful 
nuisance. But I’m not in training yet, so if 
there’s anything left in that box suppose 
you come across.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE 

In a curiously slow, almost reluctant man- 
ner, Jaok obeyed. As Clif caught the box 
deftly and took out a tightly rolled tube of 
tobacco he was aware of his brother’s frown- 
ing regard. But he gave no sign. If he did 
not smoke himself, he knew all the little tricks 
by heart from observation of his roommate. 
Now he went through them punctiliously, 
pinching and rolling the tube between his 
fingers, tapping it on his thumb-nail. Finally, 
rising, he lit it at the lamp and dropped back 
into his chair, with a deep puff. Presently 
he let some smoke trickle out through his 
nostrils at the imminent risk of bringing on a 
sneeze. 

“Not bad,” he commented, glancing at the 
label. “Don’t believe I’ve tried this sort 
before.” 

Jack sniffed. After which he discovered 
that his own cigarette had gone out and relit 
it with a pettish movement. 

109 


110 


CLIF STIRLING 


“I must say you surprise me, Clif,” he said 
disapprovingly. “I don’t see why you’ve 
taken this up, with the baseball season just 
starting. You know you can’t smoke and 
get into top form, too.” 

Clif shrugged his shoulders. “ Time enough 
for that,” he said carelessly. “A fellow’s 
got to break loose some time. I can drop it 
for a bit when the playing really commences. 
Anyhow, plenty of fellows claim it doesn’t 
hurt one’s wind.” 

He still puffed on the weed with apparent 
enjoyment, but inwardly loathing it. Jack’s 
frown deepened. 

“ That’s just it, can you stop?” he said 
energetically. “It gets a hold on a chap 
without his realizing it. And everybody 
knows it’s bad for the wind.” 

“When I find it’s hurting me I’ll stop,” 
returned Clif. “Any fellow with decent will- 
power can do that. You’re coming up to the 
cage Monday, aren’t you?” 

Jack’s cigarette had gone out again, and he 
flung it into the fireplace. “I don’t know,” 
he answered doubtfully. “I don’t guess 
there’s much chance for me, and I hate to 
work like a nigger for nothing.” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 111 


“But you must, old fellow. There are 
two places in the infield to be filled, and you 
play a good enough game to stand as much 
show as anybody. Wouldn’t it be great if 
we both made the varsity?” 

The younger lad still seemed unconvinced, 
but a little skilful argument on Clif’s part 
exacted from him a promise that he would try 
it. He didn’t seem half so interested in the 
matter as in the question of his brother’s 
smoking. When the latter arose to go Jack 
reverted to that matter brusquely. 

“You’d better think over what I’ve said 
about smoking,” he said awkwardly. “With 
Benson and Conroy gone, everybody says 
you’re sure to be the pitcher this year. You 
don’t want to let anything spoil your chances.” 

Clif glanced at the fresh cigarette he had 
taken from the box. “What about yourself? ” 
he asked carelessly. “Looks like a case of a 
fellow in a glass house heaving rocks.” 

“Oh, I don’t smoke enough to hurt.” 

Clif smiled, lighting the cigarette. “Well, 
I reckon what don’t hurt you won’t hurt me. 
Of course I can give it up any time; but as 
long as you’re smoking, I don’t see why I 
shouldn’t.” 


112 


CLIF STIRLING 


Jack’s lips parted impulsively, but closed 
abruptly again, leaving unspoken the words 
that trembled there. Clif dared not go 
further just now. He had planted the seed 
and must let time mature it. It would be 
folly to ruin things by overhaste. He had 
said good-night and opened the door when his 
brother suddenly called after him: 

“Say, Clif. I wish to the deuce you’d — a 
—call off Gene.” 

The sophomore turned, his face perplexed. 
“Call off Gene?” he repeated. “I don’t get 
you.” 

Jack flushed and twisted his watch chain 
between two fingers. “Oh, the little idiot’s 
been pestering the life out of me for a week 
or more. He seems to think I — er — chase 
around too much. It’s an awful nuisance. I 
thought at first you’d sent him, but he says 
not. Just let him know I can attend to my 
own affairs, won’t you, and make him quit? 
If he’s so awful keen about the reforming 
business,” he added meaningly, “he might 
tackle someone nearer home.” 

Clif’s heart leaped, and he drew a long 
breath. In that second a multitude of trouble- 
some puzzles were made suddenly clear as 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 113 


crystals. There was a queer expression in 
the eyes he turned on his brother. 

“He’s been fussing, has he?” he inquired 
in a voice that was steadied only by the 
most determined effort. “Humph! Was he 
around here — let me see — last Wednesday 
evening? The night of the storm, you 
know.” 

Jack nodded vigorously. “He was, and 
made a pest of himself. Of course I know 
he means well, but he ought to see that 
that sort of thing doesn’t influence me a 
particle.” 

Clif did not inquire just what “that sort 
of thing” meant. He thought he knew, and 
his teeth came down hard on the cigarette, 
almost biting it through. “I’ll speak to him 
about it,” he said briefly. “Well, by-by, old 
man.” 

Closing the door, he fairly ran down stairs 
and out into the street, where he made haste 
to toss the weed into a snow-drift. So that 
was it! Gene had learned somehow of Jack’s 
presence in the saloon, and, instead of telling 
his roommate, he had made a desperate effort 
on his own account to show the younger lad 
the error of his ways. 

8 


114 


CLIF STIRLING 


“What a blind bat I’ve been!” muttered 
Stirling contritely, as he hurried toward the 
campus. “What a surly cad!” 

Not only were Harmon’s suspicious move- 
ments on that evening explained, but the ori- 
gin of Fahnestock’s slander about Clif became 
instantly clear. Someone had seen Jack at 
McKeown’s, and, through accident or design, 
a repetition of the incident had changed his 
identity to that of the elder brother. 

As he crossed Eastern Avenue and sped on 
toward Hackett, Clif was quick to see in the 
situation a powerful weapon in his fight to 
win the boy from evil ways. If he should 
refrain from a public denial of the rumor and 
repress his contemplated exposure of Fahne- 
stock, Jack would sooner or later hear of it, 
and, after the surprise Clif had given him, he 
would be likely to believe it true. 

“All I’ve got to do is to keep still and he’ll 
be around after me before long like a young 
tornado,” thought the sophomore calculat- 
ingly. “Handled right, it ought to be better 
than my cigarette stunt. Paugh! I can 
taste the vile thing yet.” 

This reflection was merely a side track for 
his train of thought. His mind was really on 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 115 

Gene and the rank injustice he had done him 
in suspecting his loyalty. 

“He was trying to spare me, and I knocked 
him down and trampled all over him,” he 
muttered contritely. “Why, he's the best 
and truest friend I've got!” 

It seemed that he could hardly get up the 
stairs of Hackett quickly enough. 

The study was dark save for the red glow 
of a flickering fire, before which sat Harmon, 
hunched down dispiritedly on an easy chair. 
When Clif burst into the room Gene started 
nervously, looking up with a troubled gaze 
that stabbed Stirling and brought a momen- 
tary lump into his throat. Swiftly, impul- 
sively, he crossed the room and gripped the 
smaller chap's shoulder. 

“Chum!” he muttered a little indistinctly. 
“I've just seen Jack. I — ” 

He did not finish. The clutch of his strong 
fingers tightened until their hold must have 
hurt. But if Harmon was conscious of pain 
he failed to show it. A flood of crimson 
stained his face. His lips parted, and he 
flashed a swift, surprised glance up at Stirling. 
Then his lids drooped. 

In the momentary silence that followed Clif 


116 


CLIF STIRLING 


dropped down on the arm of the chair, his 
hand reaching across the other’s slim shoulders. 

“Chum,” he said again, a faintly whimsical 
intonation tempering his seriousness, “won’t 
you kick me — hard? I wish you would! 
I deserve it!” 


CHAPTER XIV 

IN THE CAGE 

It was Monday afternoon, and the upper 
floor of the gymnasium was jammed with 
aspiring candidates for the baseball squad. 
To Clif Stirling, entering a trifle late, it 
seemed as if every fellow in college with the 
slightest athletic inclination must be present, 
including the entire freshman class. 

It was natural, of course, that these first 
year men should predominate over the older 
fellows. The latter had had a chance in 
former springs to prove their mettle and either 
gain a place on the first or second nine, but 
to-day they seemed present in even larger 
numbers than usual. As the sophomore 
took in the multitude of green caps, mingling 
with more heterogeneous head gear, he felt 
a touch of sympathy for the chap who had all 
this chaff to sift in search of a few grains of 
wheat. 

But Larry Cuthbert, big, blonde and dom- 
inating, seemed quite capable of the task. 

117 


118 


CLIF STIRLING 


He was an ideal baseball captain, having an 
inexhaustable fund of physical energy, a large 
degree of patience, and an enthusiasm for the 
game that made the turning out of a winning 
team the one big aim of his existence. Before 
it all other college affairs became dwarfed into 
insignificance. 

He leaned against a corner of a table under 
one of the west windows, questioning each 
separate candidate and retailing the replies, 
with pithy comments of his own, to Robinson, 
the assistant manager, who was making out 
lists and memoranda. 

“ Greer, eh? What position? Get that 
Robbie? H. Greer, pitcher, list C. Where’ ve 
you played? Two years on high school team, 
eh? Well, just step over and report to Mr. 
Macbeth. He’ll try you out. Hello, Jarvie! 
My, but you’re a sight! Ten pounds off, at 
least — maybe fifteen. Stick Tenny down on 
A, Bob. You for the weights, my child. 
See you later about it. What name? Stir- 
ling? Any relation to Clif? Brother, eh? 
Get that, Robbie? Trying* for pitcher, I 
s’pose?” 

There was a touch of whimsical resignation 
in his voice and a twinkle in his blue eyes. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 119 


The twinkle changed swiftly to a gleam of keen 
interest as Jack Stirling laconically corrected 
the suggestion. 

“Well! well! Not one of the ancient and 
honorable order of' twirlers, after all! Too 
bad; we’ve got so few! ” Seriousness followed 
his chuckle. While he might seem at times 
to be casual, almost flippant, Cuthbert’s mind, 
even underneath his bantering manner, rarely 
strayed from the point. “Where have you 
played, and how long?” 

“ On Clif’s team for about two seasons in the 
outfield, and for a while at short,” responded 
Jack. “Last season I was at short alto- 
gether.” 

“Where on the order did you bat?” 

“Not below five.” 

“All right. Stand over there and HI take 
you in hand pretty soon. Get that, Robbie? 
Stick it down on B. Ought to be promising 
if he’s anything like his big brother. Next! 
Brown? Not — 'pitcher? Well, toddle over 
to the cage, son, and report to the coach. 
Gee, Robbie! Every mother’s son of ’em 
wants to be a Christy Mathewson. The 
cage’ll be all cluttered up with fractured hopes 
inside a week or I’m — Hello, Clif? How’s 


120 


CLIF STIRLING 


the old vet? You want to look out for your- 
self. His eyes twinkled. “Only seventeen 
twirlers so far, and still they come. This 
kid brother of yours, trying for the infield, was 
like a cooling breeze on a red-hot August day. 
How is he? Any good?” 

“Fair.” 

Cuthbert’s eyebrows arched. “ Only fair? ” 
he quizzed banteringly. “Talk about damn- 
ing with faint praise! Maybe he’s likewise 
good-hearted and kind to dumb animals.” 

Clif grinned. “Modesty forbids my hurl- 
ing bouquets at the family. He’s really a 
little old William G. Wonder when it comes 
to fielding, and one sweet hitter, as Mack 
would say. But you’ll probably find out 
all that for yourself when you take him in 
hand.” 

“Bright boy!” grinned Cuthbert. “So I 
will. How’s the soup bone?” 

“All right, I guess.” 

“Want to do more than guess,” chuckled 
the captain. “S’pose you go over and give 
Mack a treat. He’s grouchy as a crab, with 
all this budding talent. A little of the real 
thing will cheer him up. By the way, that 
chap Fahnestock is one of the crowd that’s 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 121 


out for your scalp. I wonder if he can 
pitch?” 

Clif shrugged his shoulders. “ Search me,” 
he said. “I’ve never seen him play, and he’s 
certainly kept quiet enough about his ability 
as a twirler?” 

“It’s a good sign,” commented Cuthbert, 
running his fingers through his thick, blond 
hair. “ Still — All right, son; what name?” 
He turned his keen, blue eyes on the next 
candidate in line. 

Stirling walked away, his brow faintly 
wrinkled. The appearance of Lester Fahne- 
stock in the cage was a distinct surprise to 
him, and not a very pleasant one. He could 
not remember ever having heard the fellow 
discuss baseball, much less mention his inten- 
tion of trying for a place on the pitching staff. 
It seemed rather doubtful if he could amount 
to much. 

But it wasn’t fear of competition that 
brought the touch of annoyance to Stirling’s 
face. Feeling as he did toward Fahnestock, 
anything that tended to bring about more 
frequent encounters was distasteful. Already 
the intimacy of the club table had grown in- 
tolerable, and Clif was seeking some excuse 


122 


CLIF STIRLING 


for making a change. To have this added 
prospect of closeness sprung upon him was 
decidedly exasperating. 

“ Probably he won’t stick long,” Clif pres- 
ently decided, with a return of characteristic 
optimism. “He can’t amount to such an 
awful lot, or somebody’d have known some- 
thing about it before. Guess I’m a little 
previous, working up all this excitement.” 

Catching Jack’s eye, he waved a greeting. 
“ See you later,” he called across the room, and 
passed on to the cage, with quickening steps. 

A great net, strong yet loosely woven, en- 
closed a long and somewhat narrow section at 
one end of the gym. It covered three sides 
and the top, the fourth side being formed by 
the end wall of the building itself. On this 
fourth wall, against a protective surface of 
padded canvas, had been painted a black 
rectangle as wide as the home plate, its ver- 
tical length equal to the distance between the 
average man’s knees and shoulders. 

It was this target which the various candi- 
dates for pitching honors strove to hit. One 
by one, under the watchful and critical eye of 
Coach Macbeth, they took their places in the 
imaginary pitcher’s box, gripped a baseball 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 123 


with eager fingers, cuddled it under deter- 
mined chins and bent every effort in the at- 
tempt to place it within those enclosing fines. 
Most of the boys were nervous, some palpably 
so; others attempted to conceal their feelings 
by an exaggerated nonchalance. And this, 
combined with the usual first-of-the-season 
lack of control, made the result rather farcical. 
By the time Stirling arrived Macbeth’s pa- 
tience, never noted for its enduring qualities, 
was wearing thin. 

“You seem to have the wrong idea about 
this stunt, young man,” he was saying sar- 
castically. “The object is to land the ball 
somewhere between those four fines. Try 
again and see if you can come within six feet 
of it.” 

Flushing, the candidate caught the ball, 
but was so nervous that his pitch missed the 
target by an even greater margin than before. 
Macbeth grunted with disgust and waved him 
impatiently away. 

“Very bad!” he growled, glowering at the 
waiting group outside the net. “Here, you — 
what’s your name? Fahnestock? Step up 
here and see if you can do any worse.” 

The sophomore responded readily. With 


124 


CLIF STIRLING 


perfect self-possession, yet lacking any touch 
of the exaggerated nonchalance and careless 
ease that had marked several of his predeces- 
sors, he entered the cage and took up his posi- 
tion before the target. His expression was 
properly serious, as befits the novice on proba- 
tion, but in his eyes there lurked a humorous 
twinkle that told of a thorough appreciation 
and enjoyment of the farcical exhibition that 
had been going on. 

“What sort of a ball shall I pitch, sir?” he 
asked quietly. 

The coach sniffed. “Hit the mark!” he 
retorted curtly. “Don’t waste time trying 
fancy frills. Just hit the mark — if you can.” 

His tone more than hinted a belief that the 
candidate could not do even that. 

Fahnestock was unruffled. Facing the 
padded wall, he drew back his arm for speed, 
flung it forward and shot the ball squarely into 
the middle of the rectangle. 

There was a little ripple of involuntary ap- 
plause from the onlookers. But Macbeth’s 
face did not relax. 

“Again,” he ordered with curt brevity. 

Calmly Fahnestock repeated the perform- 
ance, putting even more speed into his throw. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 125 


He followed this by a wide curve that struck 
the target just inside the lower left-hand 
corner. Last of all, he sent over a swift shoot 
that looked high, but dropped sharply and 
accurately, thudding against the padded wall 
about six inches above the lower line of the 
rectangle. 

“ Pretty fair,” admitted the coach. “You 
seem to have control, anyway. Where've you 
been practising?” 

“Oh, I come up here and toss a few balls 
occasionally,” returned Fahnestock easily. 

“Must be pretty — occasionally,” com- 
mented the coach dryly, apparently not vastly 
impressed by the sophomore's ease of manner. 
“Just the same,” he added with a scathing 
glance at the early performers who had lingered 
to look on, “some of the rest of you fellows 
might profitably have followed the example. 
All right. Next man. You with the black 
hair. Rogers, is it? Let's see what you can 
do.” 

In spite of his sharpness, Macbeth must 
have been pleased at this relieving spot in the 
gloom of mediocrity, for his manner grew less 
strained and he slightly moderated the sar- 
i casm of his comment. A little later, catching 


126 


CLIF STIRLING 


sight of Clif, he nodded and summoned him 
with a gesture. 

“ Hello, Stirling,” he said almost genially. 
“Glad to see you. What do you think of this 
Fahnestock? Not so worse for the first day, 
eh?” 

Clif nodded. “Pretty good, I should say,” 
he agreed promptly. “He’s got me beat a 
mile. I don’t believe I could lob ’em over 
like that to-day.” 

“You could if you’d worked the way he 
has,” affirmed the coach. “That 1 occa- 
sional’ stuff listens w^ell, but, believe me, that 
lad’s spent a whole lot of time getting himself 
in shape. A fellow who will work as he has is 
worth watching, and we need pitching material 
badly enough this year, goodness knows!” 

Again Stirling nodded his agreement. It 
was true that the graduation last June of 
two of the most dependable varsity pitchers 
had sadly weakened the staff. He told him- 
self that he ought eagerly to welcome anyone 
as promising as Fahnestock appeared to be, 
even though the fellow might be personally 
distasteful. But somehow he could not 
smother a vague feeling of vexation at Fahne- 
stock’s unexpectedly good showing. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 127 


Presently, when he himself tried his luck 
in the cage and failed to equal the performance 
of his enemy, Clif was conscious for the first 
time of a twinge of jealousy. Also a touch 
almost of alarm at the unpalatable possibility 
that opened before him. 


CHAPTER XV 


SHOULDERING IT 

With palpable relief, Coach Macbeth put 
the last of the aspiring candidates for pitching 
honors through his paces, after which he 
sought Cuthbert for a brief consultation. 
Presently he returned to where Clif stood near 
the cage, chatting with Tenny, the varsity 
catcher. 

“Going to have a little batting,” he an- 
nounced. “Larry has a squad he wants to 
try out, and Pve my eye on two or three. 
Suppose, you get in there and pitch a few balls, 
Stirling. Lob over straight, easy ones, you 
know, without any fancy touches.” 

“No fear of the fancy touches, Mack,” 
smiled Clif. “I don’t seem to be quite up to 
them to-day.” 

Though he laughed, in his heart there still 
remained a little of the sting caused by the 
contrast of Fahnestock’s pitching with his 
own. When he discovered that Fahnestock 
128 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 129 


himself was the first man to face him it was a 
bit hard not to keep from showing something 
of the irritation that lay beneath his com- 
posure. 

“Be easy, old chap,” drawled Fahnestock 
as, bat in hand, he took his place in front of 
the padded end of the cage. “Don’t send 
over any of those corkscrew curves of yours.” 

There was nothing about the remark to 
cause offense, but Clif’s mood made him sus- 
pect an underlying sarcasm, a veiled challenge. 
Though strongly tempted to try a bender, with 
the hope that the fellow might miss, he re- 
sented the impulse. This was batting prac- 
tice, not a display of pitching ability. He was 
here to obey the coach’s orders; the attempted 
gratification of a personal spite would be an 
infraction of discipline, something so small 
and petty that Clif’s pride made him thrust 
the idea from his mind. He threw the sort of 
ball Macbeth had asked for, and Fahnestock 
met it on the seam, smashing it into the net 
with force that made this billow out like a 
bulging sail in a sudden wind squall. 

Imperturbably Clif pitched again, uncon- 
sciously putting more speed into the throw. 
When Fahnestock missed, it was harder for 

9 


130 


CLIF STIRLING 


the pitcher to restrain a smile than it had been 
a moment before to refrain from showing his 
chagrin. 

Three times out of five Fahnestock found 
the ball. Anyone who has been through the 
first day of indoor practice will consider Coach 
Macbeth’s laconic comment, “It’s good 
enough for a beginning,” exceedingly re- 
strained. Only one other of the new men did 
as well, and that was Jack Stirling. 

His pleasure over his brother’s success 
could not banish from Clif’s mind the twinge 
of jealousy roused by Fahnestock’s excellence. 
The fellow could not be ignored. Even if 
he failed to develop in proportion to the 
showing to-day, he must still be considered 
a possibility for the team. 

Of course Stirling did not actually worry 
about his own position; nearly everyone had 
been saying that he was certain this year to 
be the premier pitcher on the varsity. But 
he was human enough to dislike the thought of 
a successful rival in a man he distrusted as 
thoroughly as he did Fahnestock. 

So immersed was he in this unpleasant con- 
sideration that he quite forgot his intention of 
looking up Jack after practice. Instead, 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 131 


leaving the gym as soon as work was over, 
he was half-way across the campus when a 
voice, calling his name, made him turn. His 
brother was hurrying to overtake him. 

“ You're in an awful rush,” commented the 
freshman briefly. 

Before Clif had r time to formulate an ex- 
cuse for his forgetfulness the younger lad 
went on hurriedly, pouring out his words 
with a swift, angry impulsiveness that made 
the articulation choppy and not entirely dis- 
tinct : 

“That Wick! He’s spreading around a lot 
of talk about you that ought to be crammed 
down his throat. I overheard him back there 
just now, and told him so. We’d have mixed 
it up, too, if it hadn’t been for the other fel- 
lows. He says you were down at Tommy’s 
the other night — half seas over!” 

Clif made no answer. He had been expect- 
ing this, but not quite so soon. The abrupt- 
ness of the assault, together with the need for 
handling the situation delicately and effect- 
ively, resulted in a long pause that, entirely 
without premeditation, produced a natural 
effect of guilt. 

“ Well? ” snapped Jack impatiently. “Why 


132 


CLIF STIRLING 


don’t you say something? Why don’t you 
brand it as the lie it is? ” 

Without glancing at his brother, Clif moved 
his shoulders slightly. “I don’t know that 
there’s anything to say,” he returned with a 
very excellent simulation of bravado. 

He could hear his brother’s swiftly drawn 
breath and the smothered, inarticulate sound 
of disbelief that followed it. 

“But Clif,” Jack protested in a sort of in- 
credulous suspense, “you can’t mean that! 
It isn’t possible that the thing is true.” 

Clif kicked at a mound of snow and frowned 
a little. “Of course I wasn’t half seas over, 
or anything like it,” he said defensively. 
“But why shouldn’t I go into Tommy’s if I 
feel like it? Other fellows do.” 

“Other fellows!” exploded the younger 
Stirling. “But other fellows aren’t on the 
nine! Other fellows! I don’t know what 
you’re thinking of! What do you s’pose 
Cuthbert or Mack would say if they knew it? 
You must realize that cigarettes and — ” 
“Now see here, Jack,” cut in Clif with 
admirably simulated petulance, “I don’t 
quite see that it’s up to you to hector me 
like this.” For the first time he turned 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 133 

and faced his brother. “Haven’t you ever 
sported a bit at Tommy’s yourself?” 

It was the younger lad’s turn to flush 
guiltily and drop his eyes. “Well, I never — 
It isn’t the same thing at all!” he protested 
with a touch of his old positiveness. 

“Why isn’t it?” 

“Well — er — don’t you see — Oh, hang it 
all, man! For one thing, you’ve got to think 
of your pitching. I’ll probably never make 
the nine at all.” 

“I don’t see why not. You made a good 
enough impression to-day. I heard Cuth say 
so to Mack. What else?” 

“Why, there’s Lowell and the rest of the 
Thets. I’m sure they wouldn’t approve. 
You know how fussy they are about such 
things. And the whole crowd you go with 
aren’t — well, they’re just not that sort, and 
it would be too bad to get the bunch down on 
you. I can’t think what’s come over you 
lately, Clif,” he complained in a faintly plain- 
tive voice. “I used to think that you — 
Well, it isn’t like you at all.” 

Clif winced inwardly at the wondering, re- 
proachful undercurrent in the boy’s voice. 
Though he had never thought a great deal 


134 


CLIF STIRLING 


about it, he realized at this moment how 
much the implicit confidence and boyish hero 
worship of his brother meant to him. The 
thought that he was deliberately destroying 
that faith brought with it a sudden pang. 
Jack would never again look up to him with 
quite that same firm, deep-rooted belief in his 
infallibility. The realization hurt keenly, 
but there was no thought in the older fellow’s 
mind of drawing back. He had put his hand 
to the plow, and, whatever the cost, he must 
follow on to the end of the furrow. 

“ Seems to me you’re making a lot of 
fuss over nothing, Jacko,” he drawled. “A 
little of that sort of thing won’t do me any 
harm.” 

“How do you know it’ll stop at a little?” 
insisted Jack. “Suppose the habit got fas- 
tened on you?” 

“Why should it on me any more than on 
you?” 

“Oh, no danger of that. I hate — That 
is, I could give it up any minute. Smoking, 
too. Never think about them again.” 

“You could, eh? And you think I’m not 
able to do the same thing, do you? Well, just 
to show you, I’ll make you a proposition right 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 135 


here and now. I’ll drop smoking cigarettes, 
and give my word not even to go inside of 
Tommy’s or any other such place in town, if 
you’ll guarantee to do the same thing.” 

Jack Stirling’s face brightened as if a sudden 
flash of sunlight had streaked across it out of 
the gathering dusk. 

“ Bargain!” he exclaimed eagerly. “ Shake 
on it quick, before you have time to change 
your mind.” 

Gripping the outstretched fingers and look- 
ing into Jack’s glowing face, full of relief as if 
a real calamity had been averted, Clif felt a 
momentary qualm over this reversal of posi- 
tions. It passed swiftly as he considered what 
he had accomplished. Jack would play fair. 
If he ever learned the truth he would be furi- 
ous, of course, but even in that case Clif felt 
that he would keep his promise. 

“ There’s one thing I’m sorry about,” com- 
mented the younger chap after they had 
walked on for a few minutes in silence. “ You 
won’t be able to smash that beastly Wick’s 
face. If you’d heard the nasty way he ran 
you down! I certainly would like to give him 
just one good wallop!” 

Clif cast an odd glance at his brother. 


136 


CLIF STIRLING 


Curiously enough, his own thoughts had been 
running in much the same channel. It 
wasn’t exactly palatable to realize that he had 
made impossible any reply to his calumniators. 

“I suppose,” he murmured, “one shouldn’t 
fight a man for telling the truth.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE ONE WHO LACKED CONFIDENCE 

Of course Gene had to be let into the plot. 
Knowing what he did, it would have been 
folly not to tell him the rest and swear him to 
secrecy. The pink-cheeked chap was divided 
between admiration for his roommate and 
indignation that the latter had taken the 
lapses of his brother upon his own shoulders. 

“It's a blamed shame !” he declared. “ You 
won’t be able to tell Wick and the rest of them 
to — to — ” He paused, sputtering. 

Clif smiled. “ Don’t get excited, chum. 
I’m not worrying a whole lot about that. 
Compared to putting the kid back on to the 
straight and narrow, any little annoyance 
they may cause me won’t amount to shucks. 
I’ve merely to go my own way and treat all 
that stuff as something beneath contempt, and 
you’ll see it die of dry rot before long.” 

Nevertheless, when he encountered Dig 
Lowell next day and, in answer to the senior’s 
137 


138 


CLIF STIRLING 


question, announced his intention of ignoring 
the whole affair as something too trivial to 
notice, it was not as easy as he had expected 
to face the older chap’s open disapproval. 

“ Of course it’s your own affair,” commented 
the latter after he had recovered from his sur- 
prise and discovered the futility of argument. 
“I must say, though, that you take it a lot 
more casually than I’d have thought pos- 
sible.” 

Stirling reddened a bit. “That’s because I 
think it’s the only way to take it,” he returned 
decidedly. “Starting an investigation and 
kicking up a row will simply draw attention to 
the silly lie and make more people hear of it. 
Any of my friends who believe it are welcome 
to. I’ll know then just what sort of friends 
they really are.” 

After hesitating a moment, he remembered 
another matter. “By the way, Dig, about 
coming to live in the frat house. I’m awfully 
sorry, but I’ve decided that I can’t. You 
see, Harmon seems to depend on me in a way. 
He’s a mighty good sort, and he’s just — er — 
done something for me that would make me 
the worst sort of a cad if I cut out and left 
him. I hope you understand it’s not that I 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 139 

don’t want to; I simply can’t and have any 
self-respect.” 

Lowell made no immediate comment. But 
he gave Stirling a long, searching, critical 
glance that roused in the sophomore for the 
first time in their acquaintance a vague sense 
of antagonism. 

“That, too, is your own affair,” Digby said 
at length with a touch of coolness. “I’m 
sorry you feel obliged to decide this way, but 
I won’t try to influence you any further. You 
know we want you, and I think your place is 
there. If anything turns up to make you 
change your mind don’t hesitate to bring the 
matter up again.” 

The latter part of his speech was pleasant 
enough, but Clif was still conscious of that 
underlying coolness in the other’s manner. 
Perhaps it was only the expression of a passing 
pique at being turned down again. Lowell 
was not used to making overtures in vain, and 
it would be no more than natural for him to 
feel a certain degree of irritation. 

At any rate, Clif tried to explain it that way 
as he walked briskly toward the gymnasium. 
He did not want to believe that a man he 
liked and respected so greatly could become 


140 


CLIF STIRLING 


permanently estranged merely because he had 
chosen the less selfish alternative and decided 
to stick by his friend. 

Stirling arrived early at the gym, but it 
was with a purpose. At intervals throughout 
the year, and even so long ago as last spring, 
he had endeavored to rouse in Harmon an in- 
terest in some form of athletics. Gene was 
neither an exceptional student nor did he seem 
at all enthusiastic over any of the multitude 
of college activities going on about him. Ap- 
parently he was contented simply to live lazily 
along from day to day, occasionally taking 
part in the pranks and escapades of the class, 
but never going into anything more earnestly 
or seriously. 

Clif believed thoroughly in everybody mak- 
ing the most of his opportunities and doing 
his best according to his ability toward up- 
holding the college name and fame, and he 
was constantly irked by Gene’s apathy. He 
agreed with Lowell, who had more than once 
commented on Harmon’s failure to do any- 
thing with his life at Stormbridge that would 
lift him above the dead level of mediocrity. 
Therefore, since Gene lacked the ability 
necessary to make any of the musical clubs or 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 14l 


the two college magazines, and was far too 
shy to try for the debating or dramatic socie- 
ties, it was toward athletics that Stirling did 
his best to steer him. 

Up to the present time his efforts had not 
met with much success. To begin with, Gene 
was perfectly certain he had inherited his 
mother’s weak heart. It had taken months to 
prove that excessive indulgence in cigarettes 
had caused his short breath; months to break 
him of that harmful habit. 

Then followed a long period of hanging 
back, mainly due to the shy diffidence that 
made it painful for him to perform even in 
semi-public. When he was finally prodded 
into grudging acquiescence Clif had already 
decided that his slight build or tempera- 
mental faults barred him from football, base- 
ball and basketball. Since he couldn’t skate, 
the track was all that remained. A certain 
natural aptitude for jumping narrowed the 
matter down still further. 

There were more difficulties to overcome. 
Gene undertook a comprehensive course in 
gym work and, under Clif’s coaching, attained 
a very fair proficiency at the running high — 
when no one else was looking on. But the 


142 


CLIF STIRLING 


appearance of even three or four observers 
around the bars was an instant signal for a 
slump that was discouraging to both coach 
and pupil. Humiliating, as well, for the 
latter. And with each depressing failure 
Gene’s faith in his own ability waned and 
weakened. 

“There’s no use wasting any more time on 
me, chum,” he would say dejectedly. “I 
can’t do it. It simply isn’t in me.” 

But Clif persevered, though sometimes it 
seemed as if his roommate must be right. 
And so the winter passed in really hard work, 
but with brief, momentary hopes, followed by 
deeper and more lasting discouragement. 
This afternoon was their first meeting in 
the gym in nearly a fortnight, and Stirling 
had a vague hope that possibly the rest, 
combined with a clearing up of their late 
misunderstanding, might in some way bring 
about an improvement in Harmon’s jumping. 

He was doomed to meet disappointment. 
Unfortunately the gym was crowded, and they 
had to wait some time for the running board 
to be vacated. By the time Gene’s turn came 
he was nervous and fidgety, and he made 
such an exhibition of himself that the onlook- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 143 


ers grinned broadly, disturbing him still fur- 
ther by their good-natured, joshing comment. 

“It’s no use, I tell you,” he almost wailed 
when the trying ordeal was over. “I can’t 
do it, and I might as well give up.” 

“ You’ll do no such thing!” retorted Stirling 
emphatically. “Do you want to be set down 
as a quitter?” 

“But what’s the use?” persisted Harmon 
despondently. “You see how it is. I’m 
only wasting your time and making myself 
miserable.” 

“That be hanged! Sometimes I’d like to 
shake you, Gene. It isn’t that you can’t 
jump. You do very well when we’re alone. 
There’s not a scrap of reason why you should 
go to pieces just because there happens to be 
a few loafers looking on.” 

Harmon sighed. “That’s just it. I know 
they’re watching me, and it seems to get on 
my nerves.” 

“Why should it?” demanded Clif with some 
exasperation. “What difference does it make 
whether they watch you or not? Not one of 
’em could clear the bar at four feet. The 
trouble with you is that you’re too self-con- 
scious. You think everybody’s looking at 


144 


CLIF STIRLING 


you and criticizing, whereas the majority 
of them aren’t interested in you at all. They 
don’t give a hang whether you’re good, bad 
or indifferent. They simply drift in here be- 
cause there’s nothing else to do, and usually 
drift out again as soon as they find there’s 
nobody of importance practising. I wish 
I could get that through your nut, Gene.” 

“Oh, it sounds all right,” said Harmon, still 
in that tone of discouragement. “Theoret- 
ically everything you say is true enough, I 
suppose. But what good is it going to do 
me when I get fussed by having just any old 
bunch standing around? It’s a condition. 
If I could get so I didn’t mind that crowd I 
don’t believe Loring or some of the regular 
track team could rattle me any more. But 
what’s the use of talking about it? I’ve tried 
all winter, and I’m worse than I was in the 
beginning.” 

Stirling’s jaws came together with a deter- 
mined snap. “Well, if you’re ready to give 
up, I’m not. You’ve got to have self-confi- 
dence drilled into you some way. Why, if 
you could make just one good jump before a 
crowd, without stopping to think whether 
they were watching you or not, I believe — 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 145 


Great guns! Look at the time. I was due 
up-stairs ten minutes ago.” 

Turning away abruptly, he raced off, leav- 
ing Harmon to stare after him disconsolately. 

“Gee!” muttered Gene under his breath. 
“I wish I had a little of his gumption. One 
good jump before a crowd! About as much 
chance of it as I have to break the world’s 
record.” 

10 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE SUSPENDED SWORD 

The problem of his roommate continued 
to simmer in Cliffs mind, but without, it must 
be confessed, any feasable solution presenting 
itself. Of all mental conditions, self-confi- 
dence is one of the most elusive and intangible, 
being much more often instinctive or born of 
a slow growth than suddenly acquired. To 
instil it into a chap like Harmon, nervous, 
shrinking, the very essence of the opposite, 
seemed like a hopeless task. Yet Stirling felt 
that it could be done somehow. 

Clif could not forget the extraordinary 
incident of over a year ago when Gene, who 
then added a timidity that was almost cow- 
ardice to his other failings, had suddenly 
flown at Harvey Blackeller like a wildcat and, 
after a rough and tumble fight, brought the 
bigger and stronger fellow to his knees, cry- 
ing for mercy. It was an instance of a shrink- 
ing nature being driven beyond the limit of 

146 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 147 


endurance; the case of an alternative being 
sprung so suddenly on him that he had no 
time to think of physical hurt. 

And, having made the plunge, he found — 
like the timid diver who discovers the water 
not nearly as cold as imagination has painted 
it — that the actual pain was as nothing com- 
pared with the mental fear and anticipation. 
What did a bruise or two, even a black eye, 
amount to in the long run? They were trivial 
indeed, as Gene had found out, and from that 
moment he was a different fellow. 

Clif felt that the chap’s lack of self-confi- 
dence was of much the same caliber, and 
would prove responsive to much the same sort 
of treatment. If Gene could once make a 
jump before a crowd of fellows without having 
time to think whether they were watching 
him with critical eyes or not, he would realize 
how easy it was and how little an audience 
matters one way or another. Of course the 
cure might not be permanent, but the possi- 
bility was favorable if the lesson could be 
made emphatic enough. 

Clif could think of various ways by which 
his aim might be accomplished should the 
stage be properly set and the characters as- 


148 


CLIF STIRLING 


sembled. But playing Providence is never 
easy, and in the intervals when his own affairs 
were least pressing Stirling cudgled his brain 
in vain for a means by which to attain his end. 

It must be confessed that such intervals 
were somewhat infrequent. Clif’s anxiety 
about his brother had been set more or less at 
rest, but the question of his attitude toward 
Lester Fahnestock continued to irk and vex 
him more than he would have admitted even 
to himself. He told himself that it was 
ridiculous to let the mere presence of the fel- 
low annoy him as he did. It was nothing less 
than a humiliating admission of the other’s 
power to disturb him. Knowing him for 
what he was, the proper attitude to take was 
one of cool indifference, not even granting the 
satisfaction of open enmity. And yet, though 
this was what Stirling’s outward manner 
seemed to portend, it was only a superficial 
cloak for a constant inward irritation. 

That feeling was undoubtedly stronger at 
the club table than elsewhere. To sit opposite 
the fellow in that close intimacy three times 
a day, forced to listen to his jokes and stories, 
noting the suave, subtle flattery with which 
he stoked the self-esteem of men whose favor 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 149 

might be useful, setting them to purring like 
so many pleased cats; never to be able to lift 
his eyes without encountering that calm, 
slightly quizzical glance, and yet to refrain 
from showing even a little of the contempt that 
filled him — all this frequently strained Clif’s 
self-control to a point of dangerous tension. 

He might have escaped it by going to the 
fraternity house for his meals had not that 
involved a desertion of Harmon. To leave 
Harland’s table for a similar one would be an 
admission of Fahnestock’s power to annoy 
him. So he stayed stubbornly on, forcing 
himself to endure by sheer will-power, and 
thereby gaining, though he might not realize 
it, an added self-control which insensibly 
eased the situation. 

The same irritation made itself felt in the 
cage, though to a much less degree. The 
chances for close personal contact were not 
nearly so frequent, and there was the added 
solace of combating Fahnestock in a per- 
fectly legitimate manner. Setting promptly 
to work, in a week’s time, by dint of hard and 
constant practising, Clif was making as good 
a showing as his rival. 

It did not add to his good humor to perceive 


150 


CLIF STIRLING 


that the latter was also forging ahead and 
that he was beginning to be regarded on all 
sides as a promising possibility for the varsity 
pitching staff. Neither Cuthbert nor Mac- 
beth were the sort to praise a new man and 
so take the risk of bringing on a case of en- 
larged cranium. The coach, in fact, while 
admitting Fahnestock’s skill, still treated him 
with a curious reserve, as if he had not yet 
entirely made up his mind regarding the new- 
comer. More than once Stirling caught him 
watching his man with an odd, searching 
scrutiny, as though he were trying to size him 
up, and finding the job somewhat difficult. 
Once, indeed, Clif overheard him saying to 
Cuthbert : 

“Of course he’s good, but speed and control 
ain’t everything. There’s plenty of time. 
Wait till we’ve tried him out in a real game. 
That ought to give us a good line on him.” 

Nevertheless, it was plain to be seen that 
both men were doing everything in their power 
to develop the new arrival. And Fahnestock 
responded to their efforts with an earnestness 
and single-minded endeavor that left nothing 
to be desired. To him no phase of the work 
seemed arduous. Always the first to arrive 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 151 


at practice, he was among the last to linger 
in the cage. He had one or two notable faults 
or mannerisms which needed a good deal of 
patience to correct, but he never grumbled or 
complained. Nor did he show the least symp- 
toms of that over-weening self confidence 
that afflicts so many youthful pitchers and is 
the bane of a coach’s existence. With per- 
fect cheerfulness he would take his place 
before the padded wall and pitch the same ball 
over and over again until he was able to throw 
it precisely as. Macbeth desired. 

In any other man such willingness and per- 
severance would have aroused Stirling to ad- 
miration. He would have followed the fel- 
low’s progress with pleasure and approval, 
delighted at this possibility of strengthening 
the team at its weakest point. But somehow 
he could not forget that Fahnestock was 
Fahnestock. He could n.ot shake off the 
feeling that made any sort of close contact 
with the fellow distasteful. And gradually 
there grew up in his mind a- possible solution 
of the problem that had so puzzled him — 
the problem of a motive which would account 
for Fahnestock’s subtle, persistent effort to 
cast discredit on his classmate. 


152 


CLIF STIRLING 

Lester's actions pointed plainly to the pres- 
ence of a goal ahead, on which his eyes were 
bent and toward the attainment of which he 
was straining every nerve. That goal could 
be no other than the position of premier 
pitcher on the varsity, the man on whom the 
team really depends, who goes into the box 
at all the big games, leaving to his less skilful 
associates the dubious honor of taking his 
place for an inning or two or of presiding at 
occasional unimportant conflicts. On almost 
every college team there is such a player, 
whose name invariably goes down to fame as 
the varsity pitcher. The names of his lesser 
rivals slip swiftly into oblivion. Fahnestock 
had evidently determined to be that man by 
fair means or foul, indifferent to the path he 
trod so long as it led ultimately to the goal. 

Looking back, Stirling asked himself, with 
a sort of dazed wonder, whether the ambition 
hadn't been firmly planted in the fellow's 
mind on the very day of his arrival last fall. 
It seemed incredible that anyone could so 
scheme and plan, could bring himself to follow 
so devious a path of double dealing for any 
goal on earth. And yet, recalling the per- 
sistence with which Fahnestock had sought his 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 153 


acquaintance, remembrances of little inci- 
dents, unthought of at the time, returned to 
strengthen Cliffs belief that it was all part of a 
deep laid plan. Inquiry 'would readily reveal 
to a newcomer the name of the man who was 
apt to be his most dangerous rival. Perhaps 
he had thought a state of friendship between 
them would render more easy any schemes he 
might later formulate against that rival. 

To be sure, those schemes had so far been 
comparatively trivial. The attempt to throw 
Clif into the hands of the freshmen on the eve 
of the class banquet if successful might have 
subjected him to some degree of criticism for 
reckless lack of judgment. The rumors con- 
cerning his habits, that Fahnestock and Wick 
had so persistently circulated, were of a 
nature to do rather more harm, especially 
since he couldn’t reply to them on Jack’s 
account. 

Though Clif could not see how this was to 
render his pitching any less effective, there 
was a passing touch of uneasiness mingled 
with his wrath. At any moment there might 
be hatching in Fahnestock’s clever brain some 
new scheme which would be more effective 
than its predecessors. For a brief space Clif 


154 


CLIF STIRLING 


was troubled by the mere sense of something 
impending and the feeling that he ought to 
be constantly on his guard. Presently he 
thrust this off. 

“ Guess Pm still able to take care of my- 
self, ’’ he decided. “If he tries any more 
monkey shines it’ll be about time to drop this 
neutrality business and take up the policy of 
the ‘mailed fist.’” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE FLYING BAT 

Spring came that year to Stormbridge al- 
most over night. One went to bed with a 
raw, cold wind sweeping across the frozen 
campus, where snow still lay in sheltered 
corners or banked against north walls, and 
awakened to the caressing touch of soft, 
balmy zephyrs that seemed to have thawed the 
hard breast of nature in a few brief hours. 

One morning Clif sprang from his bed and 
bounded to the window, thrusting out head 
and shoulders to gaze upon a new world. The 
sharp outlines of the naked trees were soft- 
ened by a faint aureole of grayish] green 
almost as intangible as mist. The cloudless 
sky was blue, shading at the edges into a warm 
violet. The very grass, across which hopped 
a robin, seemed to have taken on a new vivid- 
ness of life and color. From somewhere close 
at hand came the joyous caroling of a thrush. 
The air was soft and laden with a vague, 

155 


156 


CLIF STIRLING 


delicious scent of earth’s opening pores. As 
he filled his lungs with long, deep breaths, it 
seemed to mount into Clif’s brain and sent 
the blood racing through his veins like quick- 
silver. 

Somehow in that moment the petty cares 
and worries of the past few weeks seemed to 
slip from his shoulders so swiftly and com- 
pletely as winter had departed before the 
breath of spring. He felt strong, eager, 
virile, ready to tackle Fahnestock or any other 
obstacle that might confront him. He wished 
there might have been a game scheduled for 
this very afternoon, for he felt as if he could 
have pitched against a Walter Johnson. 

Cuthbert did not even announce outdoor 
practice for that afternoon; he probably real- 
ized that the condition of the field would make 
such a thing more in the nature of a general 
mud bath than anything else. But on the 
following morning the welcome notice ap- 
peared, and four o’clock saw the athletic field 
alive with life and color and movement. 

The air resounded with shouts and laughter 
and the call of clear young voices across the 
field. Frequent sounds of irrepressible horse 
play mingled with the clean crack of leather 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 157 


meeting wood and that duller thudding of 
leather against leather. White spheres that 
grew swiftly dingy arched ceaselessly into' the 
sunlight. Immaculate new trousers and shirts 
and woolen stockings flashed here and there 
over the greensward. The boys raced about 
the field, capering like colts with the joyous 
springy feel of turf under foot. The moist, 
earthy fragrance of spring and growing things 
was in their nostrils, and the caressing touch 
of the warm south wind was against their 
faces. 

They were tireless and irrepressible. After 
two hours of practice, during which more was 
accomplished than in three days of indoor 
work, they romped back to the gym with 
spirits unquenched. They frolicked through 
showers and dressing amid a ceaseless succes- 
sion of pranks and horse play. 

Clif was one of the most light-hearted. 
He had surpassed himself to-day and drawn 
forth from both captain and coach expressions 
of unqualified approbation. He was human 
enough to be pleased that Fahnestock, who 
for some reason seemed to have fallen off a 
bit, was near enough to hear Macbeth’s ap- 
proving comments. He even glanced side- 


CLIF STIRLING 


158 , 

wise at his rival and caught a sharp look that 
held in it no trace of the latter’s customary 
cool and slightly quizzical composure. 

“ Under your skin a bit, old top,” murmured 
Stirling as he turned away. “I reckon that’s 
the best way of any to get square with you.” 

Encouraged and stimulated, he flung him- 
self into his work next day with added energy 
and determination. He did even better. 
Fahnestock likewise improved somewhat, but 
there was evidence in his pitching of a feverish 
straining that, by its very intensity, defeated 
its object. There was evidence in his manner, 
too, of a temper with difficulty held in leash. 
To the casual observer these signs for the 
most part passed unnoticed. 

But when, on the following afternoon, Cuth- 
bert picked out a tentative first and second 
team for a short four inning game and rele- 
gated Fahnestock to the second, his moment- 
ary irritation was apparent enough to draw 
the attention of Jarve Tenny. 

“Our friend, Fannie, don’t seem exactly 
tickled to death to be on the second,” he com- 
mented to Clif. “Wonder what he ex- 
pected, anyhow? I hate these chaps who 
seem to think they’ve only to pitch a little 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 159 


to boost themselves over the heads of fellows 
who have been on the team since the freshman 
year.” 

“He’s got some of the real goods up his 
sleeve, Jarve,” protested Clif, moved by that 
generous impulse to defend a rival which is 
felt by every fellow worth his salt. “ After 
the way he showed up in the cage, you must 
admit he’s clever and certainly far and away 
the best material Cuth’s raked up this spring.” 

“Well, what of it?” returned Tenny, strug- 
gling with a refractory knot in the string of 
his chest protector. “Why isn’t he content 
with working up, like the rest of us had to, in- 
stead of trying to do the high jump act to the 
top all in a minute? I noticed you didn’t 
do any of that last year because you were just 
one of the string. I’ll bet you were mighty 
thankful to make your ‘S’ at all.” 

“I sure was!” laughed Stirling. “I reckon 
maybe everybody isn’t so easy-going, though. 
Here, let me see if I can do anything with that 
thing.” 

He succeeded where Tenny’s less supple 
fingers had failed. Then he trotted out on to 
the diamond. 

Observation and experience, combined with 


160 


CLIF STIRLING 


a knowledge of Coach Macbeth’s methods, 
had built up in Clif a theory of the quality of 
pitching desirable in these early practice 
games. He realized that they were not wholly 
designed to exhibit the skill of the man in the 
box, but were intended more for general prac- 
tice in hitting, running, base stealing, and 
all the other details of the game. Conse- 
quently, while not making things too easy, he 
did not let himself out. Of the first four men 
who faced him two reached the initial sack. 

But with the appearance at the plate of 
Jack Stirling, who was playing short on the 
second nine, Clif almost unconsciously stiff- 
ened. Just as it had been natural a little 
while ago to defend the quality of his rival’s 
work, so it seemed a matter of course that he 
must not appear to favor his brother. 

In spite of this, the younger Stirling made 
good. After slashing twice, he caught a diffi- 
cult drop at precisely the right moment of its 
sharp descent and sent it zipping between 
second and short, bringing in a runner from 
third. Fahnestock followed with a crack to 
right field, filling the bases and awakening a 
chorus of derisive jubilation, from the mem- 
bers of the second team. This ceased with 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 161 


some abruptness when the next man popped 
up a weak fly into the second baseman's hands. 

But the crowd was, nevertheless, well 
pleased with results. They swarmed out 
upon the diamond, chaffing the incoming 
fielders and warning them to be prepared for 
complete annihilation. 

For a space it looked almost as if their 
boastful joshing would come true. Fahne- 
stock's methods were the opposite of Stirling's. 
He was evidently out to make a reputation for 
himself, and in a very short time indeed he 
had three scalps dangling from his belt. One 
of these was Clif's. The faint, sneering smile 
of satisfaction with which the pitcher greeted 
his rival's failure to connect with the ball 
brought a glint into the latter's eyes. 

“So that's your game, is it?" he said to 
himself. “I wonder if you realize that two 
can play at it?" 

Still holding himself in a bit, Stirling put a 
little more ginger into his pitching. For two 
innings he had kept their opponents from add- 
ing to their lead. He did not try for strike- 
outs, preferring to trust to the fielding of the 
men back of him. But when Fahnestock 
came up again toward the last of the third 
11 


162 


CLIF STIRLING 


Clif did his prettiest. He felt a thrill of satis- 
faction when the fellow, after missing thrice 
in succession, flung down his bat and stalked 
toward the bench, his face like a thunder- 
cloud. 

Clif caught Tenny’s approving glance, and 
grinned back. “It does make a lot of differ- 
ence whose ox is gored,” he thought. 

A little later he saw Macbeth stop Fahne- 
stock on his way out to the mound and say 
something to him in a low tone. 

“Telling him to cut out a few of the fancy 
touches, I reckon,” decided Stirling. 

Though it apparently went very much 
against the grain, Fahnestock slowed down a 
trifle, using fewer difficult curves and shoots. 
He still contrived, however, to put a terrific 
amount of speed into his straight ones. 
Nevertheless, several of the first team batters 
succeeded in meeting them, and the inning 
ended with the score tied. 

It had been a swift game, and there was still 
fifteen minutes before quitting time. Conse- 
quently Cuthbert acquiesced to the general 
clamor for another inning, and the first batter 
hurried to the plate. 

He reached first on a fumble by the short- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMRREDGE 163 

stop. His successor ffied out to the right 
field. The third man lined one into the field, 
and it barely passed as a hit. The fourth 
popped up a fly back of the pan, and Tenny 
captured it without difficulty. With two out 
and men on first and second, Stirling suddenly 
realized that it w T as on Lester Fahnestock 
that the responsibility of winning or losing the 
game had devolved. 

There may be some natures so thoroughly 
self-contained, so little moved by impulse or 
stirred by pique, that such a situation would 
have affected them not at all. They would 
have realized the unimportance of the contest 
and how little it really mattered which side 
won. A few of them, perhaps, arrived at a 
high degree of scrupulousness, would have felt 
that the slightest change of pace for the undo- 
ing of any particular individual would be un- 
fair. Clif Stirling was not cast in quite so 
perfect a mould. He was just humanly 
average and a little inclined to stubbornness. 
He had a temper which, while it lay for the 
most part dormant, never really lost the vital 
spark of life. 

The sight of Fahnestock striding to the pan 
fanned that spark into a small, hot flame. 


164 


CLIF STIRLING 


The stubbornness of Clif's nature roused in 
him a determination to nip the aspirations of 
his enemy. Instead of working to give the 
players the practice they needed, Lester had 
striven from the start to make a reputation 
for himself and to detract from that of his 
rival. 

Stirling started off with a deceptive out, 
but Fahnestock refused to be beguiled. The 
batter's feet were spread slightly and his bat 
was gently oscillating; his eyes were fixed 
closely on the pitcher. His whole attitude 
breathed assurance and a belief in his ability 
to make connections with the ball. A high 
drop across his shoulders deceived him, but did 
not shake his confidence. It was followed by 
another high ball, which, however, was an 
inshoot. Again Fahnestock missed. 

“ You've got him, old man!" chortled 
Tenny. “He can’t see it." 

The batter's position did not alter, but into 
his face there came a flash of that venom Clif 
had caught there once or twice before. The 
eyes were narrowed, the lips curled slightly 
at the corners, showing a glint of white teeth 
tightly clenched. Over the jaw bones the 
skin grew suddenly taut, bringing them into 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 165 


sharp relief. High on each lean cheek a spot 
of color glowed. 

Clif shifted the ball in his fingers, taking 
plenty of time. Fahnestock would probably 
expect a teaser. Certainly, with only one 
ball called, most pitchers would feel that they 
could afford to waste a couple. 

Suddenly Stirling pitched. The ball came 
humming over with a speed that almost made 
the air smoke. 

Fahnestock swung at it furiously, missing 
by so small a margin that one listened in- 
stinctively for the whisper of a foul. But 
even as he swung he seemed to let go his hold 
on the bat, which went spinning through the 
air straight at Stirling. 

There was a warning yell from Tenny. 
Clif flung himself flat on the ground not an 
instant too soon to escape the flying missile. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE RUNAWAY STEER 

He was on his feet again in a second. His 
eyes were snapping, his cheeks crimson. He 
heard Coach Macbeth’s voice raised in sharp, 
disapproving accents: 

“You want to look out for that, Fahne- 
stock. Throwing your bat is a mighty bad 
habit to get into. There’s no excuse for a 
man losing his grip on the stick when he swings 
at a ball.” 

His words cooled Stirling and restored a 
measure of his self-control. He realized that 
while he might be morally certain of the 
deliberate intention of the act, the suspicion 
was quite impossible of proof. Some men 
frequently throw their bats when hitting. 
To be sure, a bat is rarely cast straight out into 
the diamond, although there is such a possi- 
bility. There was nothing he could do save 
take it silently and learn to be continually on 
his guard whenever Fahnestock was at bat. 

166 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 167 


Nevertheless, as he passed the latter on his 
way in from the mound, Clif favored him with 
a cool, searching stare that held in it under- 
standing and a touch of menace. The other 
met the glance squarely with that quizzical, 
half-sneering expression Clif had found so 
irksome in the past, and which now brought 
an added color to his cheeks. 

“I wonder if he was trying to get my 
nerve?” Stirling muttered, stirred by this 
fresh possibility. “I’ll show him!” 

And show him he presently did by falling 
upon one of Fahnestock’s twisters and slam- 
ming out a two bagger that brought in the 
winning run. That made him feel better. 
His indignation oozed away, and he even be- 
gan to be slightly ashamed because he had 
taken the matter so seriously. 

“ I wish I hadn’t noticed it at all,” he said 
to himself. “That would have made him 
madder than anything. Still, I guess he 
didn’t get such a lot of satisfaction out of me, 
after all.” 

Another source of gratification, and one 
which pleased Clif even more than his own 
triumph over Lester Fahnestock, was Jack’s 
showing. For a youngster, the latter had done 


168 


CLIF STIRLING 


uncommonly well both in batting and field- 
ing. His playing was far from faultless, for 
he played baseball as he did most other 
things, with a dash and vim and impetuosity 
that occasionally got him into trouble. But 
Clif had always felt that the fellow who takes 
chances and is ready and eager to try for 
anything, no matter how difficult, is apt to 
make a better all round player than the slow, 
cautious sort who invariably plays it safe. 

“Mack will tone him down and teach him 
to put the brake on now and then,” decided 
the elder brother as he caught up with Tenny 
and several other players on their way back 
to the gym. “If he only sticks to it, I guess 
he’ll have a fair chance for the team.” 

Entering the basement of the gymnasium, a 
babel of talk and laughter came to their ears 
from the locker room. But a moment later 
there fell one of those odd, momentary hushes 
that make even a low-voiced remark sound 
almost as if it had been shouted through a 
megaphone. 

“Any dub can make a splurge at bat,” came 
clearly in a sneering tone from just inside the 
doorway. “If he’s got a brother in the box 
to put’em over easy and — ” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 169 


The rest was lost in the clamor that started 
up as abruptly as it had ceased. 

Stirling stood motionless, surprised into 
inaction by the sudden realization that this 
was the voice he had heard in the storm that 
night — the voice of Fahnestock’s unknown 
companion whom for a short time he had so 
wrongly suspected of being Gene Harmon. 
Following Tenny into the room, he met the 
startled, embarrassed glance of the freshman, 
Russell Harding, one of the unsuccessful can- 
didates for the infield. Clif’s lips parted im- 
pulsively, but closed again as he realized that 
Tenny was ahead of him. 

“And any sorehead can shoot off a lot of 
hot air about a fellow he’s jealous of,” com- 
mented the catcher severely. “It’s a cheap 
and easy way of accounting for his own fall- 
down. It won’t get you anywhere, Fresh, 
believe me! As for that nonsense you were 
getting off about Jack Stirling, let me tell you 
that he had a little bit harder row to hoe 
than anyone else this afternoon — just because 
he does happen to be the pitcher’s brother. 
You get me?” 

Harding flushed painfully, looking as if he 
longed to drop through the floor. He made 


170 


CLIF STIRLING 


no reply, however, and the two members of 
the varsity sought their lockers on the other 
side of the room. 

Clif was glad he had remained silent, for the 
reproof came more gracefully from Tenny. 

“Much obliged for calling that fellow down, 
old man,” he said as they began to strip. 
“It sounded rather better from you.” 

“Fresh Ike!” sniffed the catcher. “I do 
everlastingly hate that sort of riffraff.” 

“Haven’t much use for them myself. 
Weren’t you a little off though, in saying that 
Jack had it harder than anyone else?” 

“Huh?” Tenny grinned. “That was what 
they call poetic license, I guess. You did 
lay for Fahnestock, didn’t you? How about 
that bat business? If it wasn’t such a mean 
thing to suspect a fellow of, I’d be half-inclined 
to believe it was something more than mere 
accident.” 

Clif shrugged his shoulders carelessly. “You 
can’t prove it by me, Jarve. As you say, a 
fellow would have to be pretty dirty to do a 
thing like that intentionally. Of course lots 
of men do throw their bats by accident.” 

“I’ve seldom seen it done just like that,” 
protested Tenny. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 171 


Clif laughed. “He probably has a method 
all his own.” 

An instant later he was regretting the 
speech and wondering whether Tenny would 
perceive its double meaning. But the big 
backstop evidently took the words at their 
surface value. He did not continue the subject. 

In the showers Stirling ran into Gene. 
When they had dressed the two friends left 
the gym together. Harmon had been jumping 
with even more than his usual lack of success, 
and was downcast and disconsolate. He 
began to growl. 

“Let up!” said Clif vigorously. “Your 
brain’s all choked up spending the afternoon 
in that stuffy gym when you ought to have 
been working out of doors. Loring’s had 
his chain gang down at the field for three days 
now, and there’s no reason in the world why 
you shouldn’t chase down there yourself to- 
morrow. Maybe the change will help.” 

Gene looked horrified. “You don’t mean 
for me to jump before all that crowd!” he 
exclaimed, aghast. 

“ I do,” returned Clif sturdily. “You’ve got 
to come to it sooner or later, haven’t you?” 

“But I—” 


172 


CLIF STIRLING 


“Don’t be foolish, Gene. Pretty quick 
you’ll be having me half believe you’re a 
quitter — which, of course, you’re not. You 
meet me at the gym a little after three to- 
morrow and we’ll go down and try our luck. 
Even if some of the track team do happen to 
be there, it isn’t likely they’ll be using both 
jumping bars.” 

Harmon made no further protests, but when 
he kept the appointment the next afternoon 
he was palpably nervous and fidgety. Clif 
pretended not to notice this. As they left 
the gym, Gene in his running togs and Stirhng 
ready for the baseball practice at four, and 
started briskly out along Eastern Avenue, 
Clif strove to bolster up his companion’s 
failing nerve with light talk and joshing com- 
ment on any subject that came into his mind. 

He was not very successful. Still he kept 
it up with the hope of ultimately diverting 
Gene. In this wise they passed the cross 
street leading to the abattoir and entered upon 
the long stretch of high board fence that en- 
closed the athletic field. It was some distance 
to the main entrance, which had been placed 
at the further corner of the enclosure to allow 
space for the turning and maneuvering of 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 173 


automobiles away from the trolley tracks. 
About a third of the way down was a smaller 
gate for the convenience of the players. The 
two friends had almost reached this when a 
sudden clamorous burst of shouting from be- 
hind, accompanied by the dull, rapid thud 
of hoofs on the pavement, made them both 
stop and whirl around. 

For an instant they stood motionless, gazing 
wide-eyed at the startling spectacle of a long- 
horned steer heading straight for them at a 
speed that, as Clif afterward remarked, would 
have made the everlasting reputation of any 
sprinter in college. Tail up, head down, he 
bulked as huge and terrifying to their startled 
gaze as a fair-sized elephant. The pursuing 
throng of bare-armed, bare-headed workmen, 
armed with divers hastily snatched-up weap- 
ons, added no touch of reassurance to the 
scene. After that first long, bewildered glance 
Clif turned and sprinted for the nearby gate. 

“Us for the tall timbers, chum!” he 
panted. “Hustle!” 

He flung himself against the stout planking 
and found it immovable. The gate was 
fastened on the inside! 


CHAPTER XX 


HARMON JUMPS 

Instinctively Stirling paused long enough 
to pound furiously on the boards with a 
clenched fist. Even in the act he realized its 
futility. There was no one to open, and, had 
there been, no time to wait. 

Harmon, evidently grasping the situation, 
had not paused, but was legging it on toward 
the distant entrance gate, fear lending him 
speed. In a trice Clif was tearing after him. 
In the wake of both galloped the angry steer, 
gaining with each leap. 

Stirling had more than cut in two the dis- 
tance between himself and Harmon when a 
swift glance showed the animal almost upon 
him. They could not reach the corner, nor 
was there any refuge across the street, where 
a high billboard spread its forbidding face 
across the front of a series of vacant lots. One 
possibility remained, and without hesitation 
he took it. 


m 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 175 

“The fence, chum!” he shouted. “Take 
the fence! Jump!” 

Following his own suggestion, he leaped 
for the fence, caught the edge of the boarding 
and pulled himself to safety. Balanced pre- 
cariously on the edge, he saw the steer rush 
past and heard a yell of terror from Harmon. 
His heart in his throat, he glanced swiftly 
sidewise and beheld a seeming ’miracle. 

Without a trace of halting or hesitation, 
Gene shortened his stride, gathered himself 
for a spring and soared over the six foot 
barrier as easily as if it had been a hurdle. 
He landed in the midst of a group of startled 
athletes who were gathered not far from one 
of the jumping bars, knocking two of them 
flat and collapsing gently on the human 
cushion he had made for himself. 

Clif was thrown from his perch as the steer 
crashed against the fence with the force of a 
battering ram. Scrambling up, he walked 
swiftly toward the bars, half expecting that 
Harmon’s abrupt and unconventional method 
of joining the party might have resulted in 
more or less unpleasantness. 

Nothing of the sort was manifested. As 
Clif came up, Bruce Loring, captain of the 


176 


CLIF STIRLING 


track team, was helping Gene solicitously to 
his feet. The two fellows he had knocked 
down merely grinned good-naturedly, gazing 
at the newcomer with wondering curiosity. 

“Well!” exclaimed Loring, regarding the 
blushing youth with a puzzled stare. His 
glance swept to the fence, which he seemed 
to be mentally measuring, and then came 
back to Harmon. “Well!” he ejaculated 
again. “Where have you been all this time? ” 

Harmon’s flush deepened. “I — I don’t get 
you,” he stammered. 

“Why haven’t you reported to me before?” 
demanded Loring. “ Do you know what that 
jump was? Five feet ten at the very least. 
Those are six foot boards, but the street level’s 
a bit higher than the field. Anyhow, it 
couldn’t have been less than five ten, and no 
sort of a take off, I should judge. By the 
way, what was chasing you? What smashed 
into the fence just now?” 

It was characteristic of the man that his 
interest in Harmon’s surprising jump should 
have eclipsed curiosity as to the cause of it. 

Gene laughed nervously. “A bull,” he 
explained. “Any fellow can ju-jump with a 
critter like that after him.” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 177 


“ Any fellow can’t jump like that,” retorted 
Loring. “In fact, there are mighty few — 
Hello, Stirling! What do you mean by keep- 
ing this infant prodigy in your pocket all this 
time? Don’t you know any better than that? 
Where’s your college spirit?” 

Clif laughed. A moment ago it had come 
over him in a flash that this was precisely the 
situation he had been puzzling his brains for 
weeks to bring about. Without an effort on 
his part, Providence had set the stage to per- 
fection and supplied actors and action as he 
could never have done himself. Gene had 
made his jump before an audience — and such 
a jump! He had swept away in an instant 
that stubborn, harassing doubt of his own 
powers. Now the only question was con- 
cerning his ability to duplicate the feat with- 
out the goading stimulation of fear. It 
seemed to Clif he must, if only that stimula- 
tion could be replaced by another — the con- 
fidence and expectation of these athletes 
whose ridicule and criticism Gene had so 
dreaded in the past. 

“I’ve been training him on the side, Lor- 
ing,” answered Stirling, smiling. “Wanted 
to give you a pleasant surprise. But I 
12 


178 CLIF STIRLING 

guess it's about time I turned him over to 
you.” 

Loring grinned. “If you can produce 
jumpers like this, I reckon it’s up to me to 
resign in your favor.” He glanced at Har- 
mon. “How’s the wind? Ready to show us 
what you can do without the bull for a pace- 
maker?” 

Gene hesitated, his shy glance sweeping the 
circle of faces, as if he half-expected to find 
in them veiled amusement and tolerant dis- 
belief. Instead he met frank interest and 
eager, expectant curiosity. The discovery 
braced him like the tingling spray of a cold 
shower-bath. 

“Why, yes,” he said with a readiness that 
surprised himself; “only you mustn’t start 
the bar too high. I just naturally had to get 
over that fence, you know.” 

“ Trust me,” nodded the track captain. “ I 
don’t believe you’ll have any trouble in mak- 
ing it, though — with a decent take off and 
everything shipshape.” 

He stepped to the bar, and Harmon, shed- 
ding his sweater, trotted down to the end of 
the course. When he paused and turned he 
saw that the onlookers had spread out on 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 179 


either side, forming a lane through which he 
would have to run. 

It was the hardest test the chap could have, 
and for an instant Clif was afraid his friend 
might not meet it. He need not have worried. 
Somehow the very fact that so many eyes 
were bent upon him, not laughing and casual 
in their glance, but serious and expectant — 
in one or two of the jumpers even a trifle 
envious — stimulated Harmon as he had never 
been stimulated before. They expected him 
to make good, and their contagious confidence 
permeated to Gene’s heart, making him feel 
that he would. 

At a signal from Loring, who had set the 
bar at five feet six, he darted down the course, 
gathered his legs under him and cleared the 
wand, scarcely stirring the handkerchief. 

“Good!” approved Loring, motioning the 
other lad to raise the cross-piece two pegs. 
“Try again. Nice form,” he commented to 
Clif, with twinkling eyes. “You’ll certainly 
have to help me train the bunch if this is a 
sample of your methods.” 

“ Get Mack to let me off from baseball prac- 
tice and I will,” laughed Stirling. 

He was as pleased as if the approbation 


180 


CLIF STIRLING 


had come to him instead of Harmon. “I 
always knew the old lobster could do it,” he 
declared delightedly to himself when Gene 
had cleared the bar at five feet ten and was 
greeted by a general murmur of applause. 
“But won't he be tickled a plenty!” 

“Well!” drawled a voice beside him a 
moment later. “Do my eyes deceive me? 
Can that possibly be your pink-cheeked room- 
mate performing such prodigies?” 

It was Dig Lowell. He had been on the 
running track, but now came up apparently 
in time to witness Harmon's last jump. 
There was something about the drawling 
condescension of his tone that Stirling found 
a little irksome. 

“Don't you approve of him making some- 
thing of his life here?” Clif asked with some 
shortness. 

“Approve? Of course. I'm also rather 
surprised.” The senior's gaze was fixed 
thoughtfully on the slight figure pausing at 
the end of the course. “You must admit 
it's a bit unusual for a chap to hide his talent 
under a bushel for nearly half his college 
course.” 

“He didn't begin to jump until just before 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 181 

Christmas,” explained Clif. Then he added, 
with a faint touch of sarcasm: “I suppose 
now he might even be considered a half-way 
decent fraternity possibility ?” 

Lowell did not answer. Harmon had 
started down the course again, and in silence 
they watched him flash over the turf and take 
the obstacle. This time his feet grazed the 
bar and it clattered down behind him. But 
Loring’s face continued to express unqualified 
approval. 

“ All right. That’s enough just now. You 
did mighty well, Harmon. Stick around a 
bit, and I’ll show you a trick or two that’ll 
help. You fellows get busy now. Rand and 
Siegel, take another lap or two on the track. 
Dig, I wish you’d gather up the rest of the 
bunch and drill ’em a bit in starts. I want 
to stick here at the bars for a while.” 

Lowell nodded absently and withdrew his 
thoughtful, appraising stare from Harmon to 
glance for a moment at the chap beside him. 

“I suppose he might,” he murmured, al- 
most as if talking to himself. “At any rate, 
he’s a lot more of a possibility than he was an 
hour ago.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


STILL DOUBTFUL 

Without waiting for further comment, 
Lowell walked away, leaving Stirling gazing 
after him with wrinkled, almost frowning 
brow. It was the same old point of view 
which he had always more or less vehemently 
combated; the theory that one’s friends and 
associates at college must be only men of 
prominence and prestige, whose friendship 
would be in some way or another an advan- 
tage. It meant a continual weighing, balanc- 
ing, sizing up of qualities and accomplishments 
to decide whether a fellow was worth while 
cultivating or whether one’s time and effort 
could be put to better use in other quarters. 
It was always “what can I get out of this 
man or that?” never “what can I give?” 

To be sure, this attitude was rarely ex- 
pressed so baldly or cold-bloodedly. Never- 
theless, Clif sensed it as the motive that gov- 
erned many of his friends at Stormbridge, and 
182 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 183 


even more those who were merely acquaint- 
ances. It was the one big flaw in Digby 
Lowell's character, the one obstacle that kept 
Stirling from granting the fullest measure 
of respect and liking to that accomplished and 
popular senior. 

True, Lowell was so much a power in the 
college, so admittedly at the top of the tree, 
that anyone would have found it difficult to 
pick out many men more generally important. 
All the same, Clif felt that he was constantly 
practising his theory, and gathering into the 
fraternity none but the prize athletes, the 
class leaders, the managers and officials of the 
various teams and organizations. 

Sometimes Clif wondered whether Lowell 
ever stopped to think how calculating and 
sordid was this commercializing of friendship. 
Of course one must have some standard for 
admission into a fraternity. It would be 
going to the other extreme simply to rake in a 
certain allotted number of men from each class 
without regard for what they were or what 
they stood for. But to pass by a loyal, true- 
hearted, Stirling fellow simply because he 
didn't happen to have risen to prominence 
in one line or another of college activity 


184 CLIF STIRLING 

struck Clif as savoring far too much of selfish 
worldliness. 

Harmon was a case in point. Not one of 
his qualities or attributes had changed an 
iota. In every particular he was precisely 
the same Gene, with precisely the same faults 
and virtues, that Lowell had referred to more 
than once as a nonentity, a fellow who didn’t 
count. The mere fact that he had attracted 
Loring’s attention and commendation, and 
that, by virtue of his jumping, he bade fair to 
become a prominent member of the track 
team, had transformed him in the senior’s 
eyes and turned him into a possibility. 

Stirling laughed a short, brittle, sarcastic 
laugh. Never before had he felt so keen a 
sense of revolt against the prevailing system. 
Now and again, to be sure, he had voiced a 
mild protest, as befitted a mere underclass- 
man. But, in the main, he had taken things 
as he found them, enjoying the pleasant, 
homelike atmosphere of the frat house, the 
sense of comradeship, the feeling that the men 
there were like one big family together. 

Now he wondered whether there was any- 
thing of real friendship about it. Had he 
been made a part of it because of himself 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 185 


alone? or because of his success at football 
and baseball and the fact that he was the 
undoubted leader of the sophomore class? 
Did the fellows like him for what he was? or 
were they drawn to him merely by ties of self- 
interest and the belief that his rising promi- 
nence would make him a credit to the frat? 

Clif laughed again. Then he saw Gene 
leave Loring and come toward him, his face 
wreathed in smiles. He caught Harmon by 
one shoulder and thumped him vigorously on 
the back. 

“ Didn’t I tell you you could do it? he de- 
manded. “ After this I hope you'll listen to 
your Uncle Dudley and believe what he 
says.” 

“ Listen? You bet I will! Say, it was the 
funniest thing! I had no idea I could do it. 
Just thinking about jumping here had me in a 
cold sweat all the way down from the gym. 
And then, when I saw 'em all lined up, not 
laughing but looking as if they really thought 
I'd do it, I — I just had to. Otherwise'' — he 
laughed a little — “ they'd have thought I was 
scared by the bull into doing something I 
could never repeat, wouldn't they? Now what 
do you think, chum?” he went on, his eyes 


186 


CLIF STIRLING 


brightening. “Loring says I’ve got a good 
chance for the team!” 

“ Chance!” repeated Clif. “I should think 
you had — a mighty good one, too. I don’t 
believe there’s a fellow in the crowd who can 
beat that jump of yours, and only a couple 
who’ve equalled it. You’re in a fair way of 
being one of our star performers at the inter- 
collegiates, old lemon.” 

“ Think of it!” palpitated Harmon. “I 
can’t believe it. Think of having an ‘S’ just 
like yours! I ought to hang a wreath around 
the neck of the old critter that started me 
going or give him a good feed of oats, or what- 
ever they eat. I wonder what became of 
him.” 

“ Reckon he won’t have any more use for 
feed,” returned Stirling grimly. “He broke 
away from the slaughter-house, most likely. 
By this time they’ve probably hauled him 
back and put him out of business.” 

“I’m sorry for him,” said Harmon in a tone 
of whimsical regret. “He did me a mighty 
good turn. Did you find out why the gate 
wouldn’t open?” 

“I forgot all about it.” Glancing around, 
Clif discovered Loring standing near the 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 187 


jumping bars, and walked over. “Say, Lor- 
ing, did you fellows come in through the little 
gate this afternoon?” he asked. 

“Sure. We always do.” 

“Did you fasten it after you?” 

Loring looked surprised. “It’s never fas- 
tened that I know of except during games. 
Why do you ask?” 

When Stirling briefly explained, Loring’s 
face suddenly brightened. 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Maybe the 
blooming bar dropped. It’s done that once or 
twice before, and I’ll bet you’ll find that’s 
what happened this time. Must have been 
sort of unpleasant with a beast like that at 
your heels. I’ll speak to Mike and have him 
tighten the thing.” 

Out of curiosity, the two friends walked 
over, to find that Loring’s supposition was 
probably correct. The gate was fastened by 
the simple device of a stout wooden bar pivot- 
ing on an iron pin and falling into an iron 
socket. It was in place now, and a vigorous 
pounding from the outside made Clif hasten 
to open it to let in the impatient crowd of 
baseball candidates. When these had passed 
through he did a little experimenting and 


188 


CLIF STIRLING 


found the pin so loose that a vigorous slam 
of the gate was all that was necessary to bring 
the bar down of its own accord. 

“Well, that’s accounted for,” he allowed. 
“Sort of a blessing in disguise, wasn’t it? 
But I wouldn’t want it to happen again. 
Speak to old Mike, if you see him, and I’ll do 
the same. By-by. See you after practice.” 

He turned and trotted across the field to 
where the baseball crowd was gathered. 

Another practice game was scheduled for 
this afternoon, with several changes in the 
make-up of the two teams. The batteries 
were the same as yesterday, however, and 
Clif made up his mind to keep his temper and 
his self-control, no matter what tricks Fahne- 
stock might try to put across. He would 
pitch to every man alike, without favor or 
discrimination. He felt that his conduct the 
day before had been childish, and, to a cer- 
tain degree, unfair; and he meant to give no 
single soul a chance even to whisper that he 
was allowing personal prejudice or perhaps 
jealousy to influence his actions. 

He found it easier than he had expected. 
Whether or not Fahnestock had been given a 
call down by the coach Clif did not know. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 189 


However, the fellow’s work was much more 
toned down. Instead of giving an exhibition 
of pitching ability, he seemed honestly to 
strive to moderate his pitching according to 
the exigencies of the situation. 

To be sure, whenever Stirling faced him a 
close observer would have noted a distinct 
increase in speed and a freer use of curves 
and shoots. But there was nothing like the 
feverish attempts to down his rival that had 
marked Fahnestock’s performance of yester- 
day, nor the slightest trace of irritation in 
his manner. He was calm, composed, almost 
casual, ready to bandy jests or persiflage with 
the other members of his team or with the 
opposition. So thoroughly was he the per- 
sonification of good humor that Clif was first 
astonished and then increasingly suspicious 
that this change of front was merely the mask 
for some new scheming. 

If such was the case it was a long time 
maturing. As the days passed Fahnestock 
grew more and more mellow. On the dia- 
mond he always paid strict, attention to busi- 
ness, working tirelessly and without complaint 
to win the approval of coach and captain. 
But during the pauses in the practice, at the 


190 


CLIF STIRLING 


bench, in the gym, or going and coming be- 
tween campus and field, he was genial and 
full of jest and horse play. 

Little by little he grew in popularity. 
Fellows who had paid him scant attention 
began to take him up and invite him to their 
rooms. He was seen more frequently at the 
Delta Chi house, and it soon began to be 
rumored that he had been pledged by this 
fraternity. 

Clif watched the transformation with a 
growing bewilderment. This was the side 
of Fahnestock that had won and held his lik- 
ing until only a few weeks ago, when his eyes 
were opened. Puzzled, he wondered whether 
the change would last. Was it from a realiza- 
tion that his policy was wrong and that by 
this new attitude he could work more effect- 
ively to undermine his rival than by open 
enmity? Or could it be an actual change of 
heart, the conquering of his better nature, 
that had made him relinquish for good and 
all those underhanded methods in favor of 
straightforward rivalry? 

More or less easy-going, and delighting in 
the large measure of popularity that had 
been accorded him, the persistent enmity of 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 191 


even one man disturbed Clif a little. Some- 
times, when Fahnestock seemed especially 
decent, he almost brought himself around to 
the point of view he desired; never quite. 
Always there remained deep down within him 
a faint touch of doubt, a stubborn conviction 
that a man who had strained every effort and 
thrown scruples to the wind to gain his end 
was not the sort to relinquish his ambition 
without a struggle. If he could achieve it 
by fair means, those would suffice him. But, 
no matter what appearances might seem to 
show, he was still capable of foul means. 


CHAPTER XXII 


JACK FINDS OUT* 

Meanwhile baseball was progressing along 
the usual lines. At the end of a week the 
first cut was made. Some twenty-five candi- 
dates were dropped from the squad, to betake 
themselves, after a little good-natured grum- 
bling, to various other methods of gratifying 
their athletic inclinations. Enough men re- 
mained to form two complete nines, with a 
goodly number of substitutes. Some of the 
latter would undoubtedly fall victims in the 
final lopping off of heads, before the first game. 

Jack Stirling was one of those retained. 
He had thrown himself into the game with 
every scrap of his tremendous energy and 
enthusiasm, soon reaching the point where it 
absorbed every waking thought and colored 
many of his dreams. Though he was fre- 
quently called down for his impulsiveness, he 
never seemed to grow discouraged to the 
point of throwing it all up, as he was apt to do 
sometimes with things he plunged into. 

192 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 193 

Clif was delighted, for he was in a position 
to see that Macbeth, under a good deal of 
surface growling and correction, was bestow- 
ing more and more care and attention on the 
youngster’s training. This could mean but 
one thing, as the coach was not the sort to 
waste his time. Consequently, when Jack 
was advanced to the infield of the nine Clif 
was not nearly so surprised as was his delighted 
brother. 

“I had a notion you’d make it, Jacko,” 
Clif said later, as they left the field together. 
“Mack and Cuth have both had their eyes 
on you for some time.” 

“It’s more than I had,” grinned Jack. 
“The way I’ve been ripped up the back and 
called down and howled at every other minute 
made me think I was going’ to get the hook. 
Why didn’t you put a fellow wise?” 

“Thought you might get a swelled head 
and slow down,” chuckled Clif. “Hope you’re 
not going to take it easy now. There are 
two or three fellow who are after your scalp 
all right.” 

Jack’s eyes brightened with the light of 
combat. “Let ’em come,” he said, ducking 
his head and squaring away at an imaginary 

13 


194 


CLIF STIRLING 


foe. “I'm ready for them. Now I'm in, 
you may bet I'll fight to stay there. It's a 
mighty good little old game, isn’t it Clif?” 
he added exuberantly, with a touch of un- 
wonted feeling. 

“You bet it is!” agreed the older brother 
promptly. “There’s nothing else can touch 
it in my opinion. Even football can’t, though 
I’m pretty keen about that, too.” 

“It beats that,” affirmed Jack positively. 
“It has track and hockey and all the rest of 
’em skinned a mile. By the way, how’s 
Genie coming along? I hear he’s blossomed 
out into a prize jumper.” 

Clif laughed. “He’s a changed man. Can’t 
think or talk about another thing. You ought 
to hear him discuss the theory of the running 
high and reel off names and records by the 
yard. I reckon he’s bought every book and 
manual ever printed on the subject and — 
Say, why don’t you drop around here to- 
night and see him? It’s a good while since 
you’ve favored us with a call.” 

“I would, only I promised Harding to go 
over there. Won’t to-morrow do?” 

“Of course; we’re almost always in.” 

Clif looked as if he meant to say something 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 195 


else, but apparently he changed his mind. 
When they separated in the gym his eyes 
followed Jack’s trim, erect figure across the 
room with a faint touch of trouble in their 
depths. It was not the first time the boy 
had mentioned Russell Harding in terms that 
told of a certain degree of closeness, nor the 
first time the elder brother had been tempted 
to comment disapprovingly on the unwisdom 
of any intimacy in that quarter. 

He had nothing definite against the fresh- 
man save a certain instinctive dislike he had 
taken to the fellow, doubtless originating in 
the latter’s connection with Les Fahnestock. 
Clif had been making some inquiries, and had 
come to the conclusion that Harding was not 
the sort of chap to do his brother any good. 
It was not merely that he had failed to ac- 
complish anything athletically — his coming 
out for baseball had been a kind of flash in 
the pan, the result of a whim, evidently; for 
it represented the beginning and the end of 
his efforts in that direction. This in itself, 
of course, would not have influenced the elder 
Stirling had there apparently been some re- 
deeming qualities of steadfastness or sta- 
bility. 


196 


CLIF STIRLING 


But Harding seemed a very typical example 
of the college drone, the sort of fellow who 
rarely studies, trusting to luck, or cramming, 
or even worse, to scrape through exams. Oc- 
casionally such a fellow takes part in various 
wild pranks that often pass the bounds of 
legitimate mischief ; but more often he prefers 
" to pass his time at pool or cards. Not infre- 
quently he spends valuable hours just idling 
about, smoking innumerable cigarettes and 
acting the futile role, as he conceives it, of a 
man of the world. 

Clif more than suspicioned that it was 
Harding and his associates who had filled 
Jack’s mind with the nonsense about the man- 
liness of smoking and sporting. Nor was it 
likely that they would stop there; for the fel- 
low who reforms seems invariably to become 
the special butt for ridicule and persuasion 
by those still clinging to their bad habits. It 
was, at best, an unwholesome connection, and 
Clif would have given a great deal for an 
effective means of breaking it off. 

“The trouble is,” he thought, “if I go at it 
smashing, he’s sure to get up on his high horse 
and ring the changes on that silly ‘living his 
own life’ stuff. I wish it wasn’t so infernally 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 197 


hard to make him listen to reason. He won’t 
hear a single word against any of the fellows 
he picks up. Even if I told him what Harding 
said about him in the gym the other day, he’d 
get mad and say I was prejudiced, and not 
let it make a bit of difference.” 

Clif realized a moment later, with a rare 
flash of insight, that perhaps, under similar 
conditions, he himself might not act so very 
differently. At least he had no fear of Jack’s 
breaking the promise he had made, no mat- 
ter what influence and persuasion might be 
brought to bear. There was present consola- 
tion for Clif in this assurance and in the belief 
that, sooner or later, he would devise some 
feasable way of breaking off the objectionable 
friendship altogether. 

The following evening Jack dropped around 
to see them, as he had promised. They spent 
over an hour swapping yarns, with much 
joshing of the new fledged athlete. Several 
days passed, during which Clif merely ex- 
changed a few casual remarks with his 
brother at the field or on the way to and from 
the gym. In these chance encounters Jack’s 
manner was what it had always been, inti- 
mate and chummy, with an underlying touch 


198 


CLIF STIRLING 


of something deeper than friendliness. Clif 
was, therefore, totally unprepared for the 
blow that fell the following Thursday even- 
ing. 

He was sitting up considerably later than 
usual, working out a difficult bit of Latin 
translation. It was close to eleven, and 
Harmon had been in bed half an hour, when 
the door was suddenly flung open without 
warning and Jack stepped swiftly into the 
room. His face was flushed and frowning; 
his eyes snapped with a fire that told of illy 
controlled temper. He slammed the door 
behind him and faced his astonished brother. 

“Well!” he burst out angrily. “I hope 
you’re satisfied over making a fool of me!” 

Clif flushed a little under the other’s tone, 
but, in spite of his bewilderment, his voice 
was low and even and composed, “I don’t 
think I’ve done that, Jacko — at least, not 
intentionally,” he said quietly. “What do 
you mean?” 

“You know well enough what I mean, or 
you ought to,” stormed the younger Stirling. 
“Didn’t you fool me into promising to cut out 
smoking and all the rest of it by pretending 
you’d got into the — er — habit yourself and 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 199 


wouldn’t stop unless I did? And now it turns 
out to be all a fake. You’ve never been in a 
saloon in your life, and I don’t believe you 
ever smoked a cigarette except the ones you 
took in my room that night. You can’t deny 
that, can you? You can’t say it’s not true, 
every word of it!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


IN SUSPENSE 

Clif sat silent, staring in a thoughtful, 
troubled fashion at his brother’s angry face. 
The thing he had grown to consider a remote 
possibility had come to pass so suddenly and 
unexpectedly that he was caught unprepared. 
Mechanically he put down book and pad on 
the table and slipped the pencil in his pocket. 
Then he glanced again at the irate fellow be- 
fore him. 

“ Suppose it is,” he countered at last. “I 
don’t quite see how I’ve made a fool of you, 
as you call it.” 

Jack snorted. “You don’t? I’d like to 
know what else you’d call it. Here I’ve been 
thinking all along I was helping you — er — to 
cut out something that — that would hurt 
your pitching. I deprived myself — that is, I 
gave it up for that reason. And I didn’t mind 
what the fellows said so long as I — Oh, hang 
it all! You know what I mean. And how 
do you s’pose I felt when I found out it was all 
200 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 201 


a lie? That’s what it really amounts to. 
You just the same as told me that — ” 

“I guess that’ll be about enough,” cut in 
Clif, his flush deepening. “I didn’t lie to 
you, and you ought to know it. If I gave you 
the impression I’d been smoking, and all the 
rest of it, it was because I was willing to do 
anything to break you loose from habits that 
would just about certainly mean the end of 
any decent sort of career here. That was the 
surest way. How far do you suppose you’d 
have got on the field, for instance, if Mack 
and the rest of them found out you were 
smoking and going around to McKeown’s 
every now and then?” 

“ That’s not the point,” retorted Jack hotly. 
“If you saw I was on the wrong tack you 
needn’t have tried to pull wool over my eyes. 
You could have come out with it, fair and 
square, and asked me to stop and — ” 

“And you would have reminded me that 
you were living your own life,” put in Clif 
meaningly. “You would have said that a 
fellow has to be a sport now and then or be 
called a Miss Nancy. You know your theory 
that smoking and sporting in moderation 
never hurt a flea.” 


202 


CLIF STIRLING 


Jack frowned and bit his lip. “It doesn’t 
follow at all,” he defended. “Fve got horse 
sense, I hope, and I’m always ready to listen 
to reason. Besides, you talk about it as if 
I’d been the worst sort of a rounder. I hadn’t 
been to Tommy’s more than three or four 
times, or smoked hardly at all. And, any- 
how, I’d have cut it all out myself as soon as 
the season began.” 

“You’d practically decided not to come out 
for baseball at all until I persuaded you,” 
reminded the older brother quietly. 

“Shucks! I’d have changed my mind the 
next day. Anyhow, as I said, that isn’t the 
point. It wasn’t fair and square. You 
tricked me into making that promise, and 
now you’ve got to release me from it.” 

Clif eyed him steadily. “What for?” 

“Because I won’t be bound like that. If I 
chose to cut out those things of my own accord 
that’s all right; but I’m not going to have fel- 
lows say I’m tied to my brother’s coat tail and 
can’t do a single thing without getting his 
permission.” 

Clif hesitated. At one moment he was 
almost ready to release Jack, trusting to his 
honor and common sense to keep him straight. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 203 


Then he remembered the boy’s hot-headed 
impulsiveness and susceptibility to influence, 
especially in anything reflecting on his pre- 
cious independence; and suddenly his mind 
was made up. 

“Pm willing to beg your pardon for having 
deceived you, Jacko,” he said, “though it was 
with the best intentions. I’ll promise you 
that another time I’ll put any matter that 
comes up straight to you, man to man, and 
trust you to do the right thing. I don’t see 
why you want to be released since you’re 
going to keep in training. Just having a 
promise to keep will make it lots easier to 
turn down any temptation.” 

Jack’s eyes snapped angrily. “You mean 
you won’t do it, then?” he demanded. 

Clif shook his head. “No. When you’ve 
cooled off you won’t be sorry, either. I can 
trust you to keep your promise?” 

“Oh, I’ll keep it all right,” rasped the 
younger chap harshly. “Don’t worry about 
that. I’m not the sort to break my word. 
But I’ll make you mighty sorry you — ” 

He clipped off the remainder of the speech 
with a determined clamping of his jaws, and, 
turning abruptly, made for the door. 


204 


CLIF STIRLING 


Clif realized the futility of prolonging the 
painful interview. In his present mood Jack 
was utterly impervious to argument or reason. 
But as his brother reached the door a sudden 
question flashed into Clif s mind, bringing him 
forward on the edge of his chair. 

“Jack!” he called impulsively. “Where 
did you hear about all this — from Harding?” 

The younger lad turned slowly, his face 
taking on an expression that was the reverse 
of pleasant. “No,” he returned deliberately. 
“It wasn’t Russ who told me. The man who 
so kindly opened my eyes was Les Fahne- 
stock.” 

Clif caught his breath and his face grew 
crimson. “What!” he gasped. “That 
bounder!” 

His brother smiled in a manner that made 
Clif long to shake him. “I don’t call him 
a bounder,” he drawled. “I rather like 
him.” 

With which parting shot he stalked out, 
slamming the door behind him. 

Stirling glared at the closed portal, on his 
face an eloquent mingling of conflicting emo- 
tions, chief of which, it must be confessed, 
was anger. Jack’s behavior had roused in 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 205 


him a strong sense of indignation. Whether 
his methods had been right or wrong — and he 
was far from ready to admit the latter — it 
seemed to him the boy might have appreci- 
ated the motive that had governed him from 
first to last, instead of flying out in a tirade 
that could scarcely have been more stinging 
had Clif all along been deliberately working 
against his brother’s best interests. 

But his irritation against Jack was as noth- 
ing compared to the rage Lester Fahnestock’s 
interference had stirred within him. The 
fellow’s underhanded attacks against him con- 
cerned the sophomore alone and left him free 
to ignore them or not, as he chose. But when 
it came to hitting at him through Jack, to the 
deliberate destroying of the good work Clif 
had accomplished, and perhaps even striving 
to fasten on the youngster the harmful habits 
he had thrown aside, it was something so 
vitally different that the mere thought of it 
roused Stirling to a fury and made him start 
up with the sudden determination of settling 
that phase of the matter at once. 

“I’ll have it out with the cur before I 
sleep,” he growled, glaring around for a cap. 
“By Jove! If he thinks — ” 


206 


CLIF STIRLING 


“ You’re not going out now, chum?” pro- 
tested Harmon from the bedroom door. 

Clif glanced around at the tousle-headed, 
pajama-clad figure, and nodded vehemently. 
“I sure am! At least, Fm going as far as Les 
Fahnestock's rooms. Did you hear what 
Jack said?” 

“ Couldn't very well help it. He waked 
me out of a sound sleep. It's a shame, chum, 
that he's found out.” 

“Found out! He was deliberately put 
wise.” Clif crammed on his cap, regardless of 
the fact that he did not have to go out of the 
same building. “I'm going to get after that 
rotter to-night and warn him to keep his hands 
off Jack, or else — ” 

The remainder of the sentence was drowned 
by the slamming of the door as he flung himself 
out of the room like a young cyclone. In 
Gene's face an expression of troubled concern 
swept away the last lingering trace of drowsi- 
ness, and he ran his fingers through the mass 
of tousled blond hair. 

“I wish he hadn't chased off like that,” 
he muttered worriedly. “He's mad right 
through, and he'll go for Fahnestock hammer 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 207 

and tongs. Maybe there’ll be a fight. I 
wish he’d waited to cool down.” 

He moved slowly toward the door, stirred 
by some vague impulse of interfering. With 
his hand on the knob, he seemed to realize 
the futility of such a step, and came back to 
the study table and dropped down in the 
chair Clif had just vacated. 

For a space he sat motionless, staring at the 
closed door. Then the fresh breeze from an 
open window struck his lightly clad figure and 
made him shiver a bit. He reached out to 
drag from the nearby couch a brilliantly hued 
Navajoe blanket. Wrapped in its folds, with 
feet tucked under him and only his tumbled 
blond head protruding, he sat on, the personi- 
fication of wide-eyed, troubled waiting. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


THE GAGE OF BATTLE 

Stirling, meanwhile, having taken the 
stairs two at a time, strode down the upper 
hall and knocked sharply on a door. Even 
as he did so he was conscious of sounds of 
altercation within, and particularly of the 
voice of Paul Wick raised in anger. 

“Move out, if you like! I don’t give a 
hang! I guess I won’t have much trouble 
getting somebody else to — ” 

The voice ceased abruptly at the sound of 
Clif’s rap. When Stirling impetuously thrust 
open the door without waiting for an invita- 
tion he saw the two roommates facing each 
other on the hearth rug, Wick flushed and 
angry-eyed, Fahnestock calm and imperturb- 
able, a . faint cynical smile curving his close- 
set lips. Both stared with different degrees of 
surprise at the intruder. It was Fahnestock 
who broke the momentary silence. 

“Come right in — do,” he murmured with 
a touch of sarcasm. “Don’t wait for an in- 
208 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 209 


vitation. Always glad to have our friends 
make themselves quite at home at any hour 
of the day or night/ ’ 

The color swept into Stirling’s face, but 
his expression did not relax. “I want to 
talk to you a few minutes,” he said curtly, 
with a meaning side glance at Wick. 

“Talk away,” the latter snapped, reaching 
for his hat. “Don’t mind me. I’ll go out 
and enjoy the moonlight, and be jolly glad 
to get off by myself for a bit, too.” 

He flounced out, closing the door with un- 
necessary vehemence. 

Clif turned to meet Fahnestock’s quizzical, 
heavy-lidded glance. 

“Such an accommodating chap!” mur- 
mured the latter, resting one elbow on the 
mantle shelf. “So good tempered and agree- 
able ! ” He shrugged his shoulders slightly and 
raised his eyebrows. “Well, considering the 
hour, perhaps we’d better get down to cases. 
I suppose there’s something special on your 
chest to account for the honor of this call?” 

“There is,” retorted Stirling. “I came to 
warn you to keep your hands off my brother.” 

“To warn me? Dear, dear! How kind! 
How truly thoughtful! But aren’t you just 

14 


210 


CLIF STIRLING 


a little vague? Or perhaps Fm a bit dense. 
I don’t exactly see — ” 

“You do see!” cut in Clif, restraining his 
temper with an effort. “You were with him 
to-night at your friend Harding’s, and took 
the trouble of enlightening him regarding cer- 
tain matters which were my business, and 
mine alone. I want you to understand that 
in future he can get along without your inter- 
ference. In other w r ords, the less he sees of 
you the better he’ll be off.” 

Fahnestock laughed softly. “Most touch- 
ing!” he drawled gently, yet with a faint un- 
dercurrent of sharpness in his voice. “A sort 
of self-constituted ‘ brother’s keeper,’ aren’t 
you? Do all his friends have to pass the test 
of your approval before he’s allowed to play in 
their back yards? I wonder what he thinks 
of this censor business? He doesn’t strike 
me as the sort of chap who would take kindly 
to the leading string.” 

“That’s not the point.” Clif’s voice was 
hard and brittle. “His ideas on this particu- 
lar subject don’t count much more than yours. 
Don’t think for a minute, Fahnestock,” he 
added, moved by a sudden irresistible im- 
pulse, “that I’m not on to your game. You 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 211 


don’t give a hang for Jack or anything pertain- 
ing to him, of course. You’re simply trying to 
hit at me through him.” 

“ Ye-es?” 

“It’s all part of the scheme you’ve been 
working on ever since you came to Storm- 
bridge. You’re not content to play fair and 
trust to your ability alone to win the race for 
pitching honors. Instead of that, you’ve 
been doing your best by every means in your 
power to bring discredit on me, hoping that, 
if the time came when we were neck-and-neck, 
the lying rumors you’ve tried to circulate 
would work against me and in your favor.” 

It was the first time Clif had actually put 
into words his vague theories of the motives 
back of Fahnestock’s persecution. In fact, 
he was not conscious of having, up to now, 
reached anything but general conclusions. 
But, moved by anger and contempt, stirred by 
the sight of that sneering face before him, his 
suspicions seemed suddenly to crystallize into 
concrete certainty, just as the bits of colored 
glass in a kaleidoscope shape themselves at 
a turn of the wrist into regular patterns. 

“You’ve done your best to spread it around 
college that I’m a frequenter of McKeown’s 


212 


CLIF STIRLING 


saloon,” Stirling went on swiftly. “You did 
your blamedest to throw me into the fresh- 
men’s hands the day of the class banquet, 
knowing it would be a big reflection on my 
judgment to put myself into a position to be 
kidnapped. You’ve tried a lot of other 
tricks to the same end. This last is one of 
them. Perhaps you hope to get me flurried 
over Jack, so that I’ll be in bad shape for the 
game Saturday. Of course you’ll deny every- 
thing, but — ” 

“I really don’t know why I should,” broke 
in Fahnestock in low, even, languid tones, be- 
lied by the touch of color high on each lean 
cheek. He had thrust both hands into his 
trousers pockets and was leaning against the 
mantle, his chin slightly lowered, his eyes nar- 
rowed almost to slits. “After all, why should 
I go to the trouble of faking indignant in- 
nocence when we’re alone? You can’t prove 
anything against me. It would simply be a 
question of your word against mine, and I 
flatter myself that my general reputation is 
quite equal to yours. I’ve got as many friends 
who think well of me and who stand up for my 
good name. You see, I’ve taken care of that, 
all right.” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 213 


He paused, eyeing his visitor almost amus- 
edly from under lowered lids. “You've 
really doped this all out very well, Stirling,” 
he went on presently. “You haven’t missed 
many tricks, have you? There’s just one 
thing, though, that you don’t seem to have 
grasped. Though you haven’t said it, you 
seem to labor under the delusion that I hate 
you. Of course it makes very little differ- 
ence one way or another, but the fact is that 
I haven’t anything against you personally. 
You’re not a half-bad sort, except that you’re 
so deucedly conscientious and finicky you 
stand in your own light. But you happen to 
be an obstacle, and with me obstacles exist 
only to be brushed aside or surmounted.” 

“By any means at all — fair or foul,” 
sneered Clif. 

“Precisely,” agreed Fahnestock compos- 
edly. “Of course I prefer to be open and 
aboveboard when it’s possible; that way’s 
generally less complicated. But, not being 
plagued with a conscience like yours, I have a 
lot wider scope. You see, Stirling, I came to 
this school with a fixed purpose. Baseball’s 
my game. I don’t care for football, and I’ve 
never gone in for track or basketball or any 


214 


CLIF STIRLING 


of the other sports, except a little tennis now 
and then. But I can pitch, and before I ever 
saw Stormbridge I made up my mind that 
Fd finish in the varsity at the head of the 
string. I expected Fd have to work for it, 
but a fellow generally does have to work for 
anything worth while. After I got my bear- 
ings I decided to narrow the goal down a bit 
and be content with pitching against Dart- 
more and Lafitte.” 

His slim figure had straightened a little, 
and under the careless, casual banter of his 
tone was a note of inflexible purpose which 
impressed Stirling in spite of the latter’s de- 
termination to remain unmoved. 

“Dartmore and Lafitte?” Clif repeated 
sharply. “ Those are the only big games we 
have. The others don’t count.” 

“Exactly,” smiled Fahnestock. “That’s 
why I chose them. That’s why I mean to 
leave no stone unturned to be picked for them 
by Mack and Cuthbert.” 

Clif reddened. “Why, you — you — ” he 
exploded. Then he fought to keep back the 
rush of angry words he felt would only add to 
his rival’s satisfaction. 

The latter shrugged his shoulders. “Why 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 215 


not be sensible about something you can’t 
help?” he drawled. “I'll even be generous 
and make you a proposition. Give me your 
word to stand aside for these two games — it’s 
always easy enough to be not quite up to the 
mark, you know — and I’ll agree to drop the 
campaign against you. You can go in with- 
out opposition at the other games and — ” 

“You can go to Halifax with your proposi- 
tions!” flamed Stirling, his face crimson. 
“What do you think I am, anyhow? I’d 
rather never pitch another game at Storm- 
bridge than agree to your schemes. 

His eyes glittered and he took a step for- 
ward with fists clenched. “You can go ahead 
and do your crooked best! So far, I can’t 
see that you’ve accomplished much, anyhow. 
There’s just one thing, though, that I want 
you to get into your nut: You’re to lay off 
Jack. I’ll take a chance on looking after 
myself, but if I catch you monkeying around 
my brother again I’ll get after you and give 
you the prettiest thrashing you ever had in 
your life.” 

Without waiting for Fahnestock to reply, 
he turned and left the room. 


CHAPTER XXV 


THE FELLOW WHO HAD “NERVES” 

When he had cooled down, Clif could not 
look back with any degree of pride or satis- 
faction on the part he had played in the sur- 
prising interview. Compared with Fahne- 
stock’s studied composure, his own manner 
seemed ranting and exaggerated; his self- 
control had been palpably strained, his final 
loss of temper unnecessary and ineffective. 

“But how could a fellow help going up in 
the air,” he growled in self-defense, “when a 
proposition like that was put up to him? 
Anyhow, I didn’t leave him in doubt concern- 
ing what will happen if he tries any more of 
his tricks on Jack.” 

Nevertheless, he realized that the affair 
wasn’t going to be an easy one to handle. 
Next day, on the field, Jack made it plain 
that he had not yet recovered from his grouch. 
He was distinctly cool toward his brother, 
and, possibly by way of deliberate contrast, 
216 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 217 


he manifested a marked cordiality toward 
Lester Fahnestock. More than once Clif 
saw Jack approach the fellow and engage in 
conversation. Before the afternoon was over 
Clif was frowning with mingled annoyance and 
perplexity. 

If Jack continued to go out of his way in a 
deliberate attempt to cultivate his brother’s 
enemy, that brother’s hands were practically 
tied. 

Between irritation at Jack’s folly and worry 
over the result Clif made rather a poor show- 
ing in this last practice before the first regular 
game. In fact, both Cuthbert and Macbeth 
commented on it at different times and asked 
if there was anything special the matter. 

Apparently they did not consider the lapse 
serious enough to change their plans. On the 
following afternoon Stirling was the pitcher 
announced to open the season in the contest 
with Hammond, a plucky little college whose 
teams suffered perennial defeat at the hands 
of its bigger rival, but always bobbed up 
serenely, ready for the next battle. 

Unimportant as a game, the fact that it 
was the first contest of the season brought out 
a big crowd. All Stormbridge seemed on 


218 


CLIF STIRLING 


hand to sing and cheer and wave blue and 
white defiance at the compact throng in the 
visitor’s section, that bristled with maroon 
colored flags and tried to make up in vigor and 
enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers. 

Next to pitching in one of the two big games 
the honor of opening the season was most 
sought after. Clif felt that, in spite of all he 
had said to the contrary, Fahnestock would 
really have been highly pleased to be on the 
mound to-day. It was likewise pretty certain 
that he would welcome with delight any dis- 
play of poor form by his rival; for which 
reason, if none other, Stirling exerted himself 
to the utmost to make a good showing. 

Fortunately he did not make the mistake 
of treating the visiting team as something so 
weak as to be almost a joke. Had he done 
so the joke would probably have been on him, 
for it happened that at last Hammond had 
managed to scrape together a real team. A 
man named Gambrill was captain, and he 
handled his well-drilled forces in a masterly 
manner. He was likewise “some twirler,” as 
the Stormbridge fans very quickly termed him. 
This brought about a swift, snappy, fairly 
close contest instead of the usual walkover. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 219 


For three innings neither side put a man 
across the rubber. Then Stormbridge got 
two runs and her rival one, and during several 
innings thereafter the score see-sawed along, 
remaining comparatively the same. In the 
beginning of the eighth, with the standing 
6 to 4 in Stormbridge’s favor, the home team 
slumped long enough for Hammond to fill 
the bases. With none out and the heavy end 
of the batting list coming up, Stirling was put 
to the test. He fanned the first batter, lured 
the second into hoisting up an easy infield 
fly, and made, alone and unaided, a clever 
one-handed stop of the third chap’s slashing 
swat. 

This last performance, it may be remarked, 
irritated Jack Stirling, who was covering 
second; for Jack believed that put-out should 
have been his. He was leaping to meet the 
ball when Clif intervened, and he frowned ill- 
temperedly. 

“ That’s right, hog everything!” he growled 
under his breath, starting toward the bench. 

The words were too low for Clif to hear, but 
some instinct must have made him look around 
a moment later. He met his brother’s frown- 
ing and almost hostile glance, and a touch of 


220 


CLIF STIRLING 


puzzled worriment tempered the brightness of 
his face. He couldn’t understand Jack at all 
these days. Usually the boy’s angry flare-ups 
passed almost as swiftly as they came. It 
wasn’t like him to harbor a grudge against 
anyone, much less the elder brother whom he 
had always looked up to and admired. Now 
he was stiffly reserved and stand-offish, as if 
his grouch against Clif had been only just 
conceived instead of at least forty-eight hours 
old. 

Clif was doomed to be still more disturbed 
and puzzled. A week later Jack’s manner was 
practically unchanged. He was still as cool 
and reserved and as stiffly aloof as he had been 
the day of the Hammond game. 

The elder brother’s patience was becoming 
rapidly exhausted. 

“He ought to be taken by the scuff of the 
neck and well shaken up, the young cub!” 
thought Clif indignantly. “I suppose he 
imagines this silly business he gets off is digni- 
fied reproof aimed at me.” 

It was Harmon who suggested a different 
and more plausible explanation of the situa- 
tion. Early Saturday afternoon the two 
friends were on their way to the field, where 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 221 


the final trying out of the track men was 
scheduled to begin at two-thirty. It was a 
momentous occasion for Gene, as it had prac- 
tically been decided that only the winners in 
the various contests to-day would be entered 
for the important big intercollegiate meet that 
came off early in June. Harmon wasn't 
exactly afraid, for he had been doing astonish- 
ingly well for the past fortnight or so, and 
everyone assured him there was no question 
of his earning a place. But still he could not 
keep down a certain amount of nervousness, 
and he wasn't sorry when the question of Jack 
Stirling came up to take his mind off his own 
troubles. 

“I don't believe he's doing it of his own 
accord," he affirmed positively. “ Jack's not 
the sort to harbor grudges. I'll bet there's 
somebody else who has a finger in this pie." 

“You mean there's someone in the back- 
ground egging him on and keeping him stirred 
up all the time?" inquired Stirling. “That's 
possible, of course. If I thought Fahnestock— 
But pshaw! It can't be he! I've had my 
eye on him for the past ten days, and he 
certainly hasn't — " 

“It might be that Harding chap, though, 


222 CLIF STIRLING 

mightn’t it? Aren’t they pretty thick these 
days?” 

“You mean he and Jack? A lot thicker 
than I’m keen for. Harding and Fahnestock 
are rather chummy, too. I wonder — ” 

He paused thoughtfully, struck by the sud- 
denly obvious possibility. Without appearing 
openly in the matter, it would be the acme of 
simplicity for Fahnestock to continue working 
against Clif through Russ Harding. It wasn’t 
even necessary to take the latter into his con- 
fidence. A little clever suggestion from a fel- 
low like the sophomore would be enough to 
keep Harding to the scratch and cause him 
to do his best to bring about a breach be- 
tween the two brothers. 

It was at once so easy and so safe. Clif’s 
gorge rose as he realized how practically help- 
less he was to combat the scheme or retaliate 
against its prime mover. Without proof, he 
could not attack Fahnestock. To assail 
Harding would only make Jack more bitter 
against him, for the boy hated nothing so 
much as attempts to interfere with his friend- 
ships. 

The whole affair so annoyed and troubled 
Stirling that he got very little pleasure out of 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 223 


the meet. In fact, it was not until Gene 
came over and stood beside him, just before 
the jumping events were scheduled to come 
off, that Clif pulled himself together and began 
to pay attention to what was going on about 
him. 

Almost immediately he realized that Gene 
was desperately nervous. Either something 
had happened since their arrival on the field to 
intensify this condition, or else the boy had 
been troubled that way all along, but had 
managed successfully to conceal the fact. 

“ Here’s where yours truly gets it in the 
neck,” Harmon commented, with a shaky 
laugh. “ Eve been watching Channing work- 
ing out over there. He’s got the event 
cinched, chum.” 

Clif told himself that, instead of mooning 
over his own affairs, he should have stuck by 
Gene and kept him from lapsing into this 
dangerous state of despondent pessimism. 

“ Cinched? ” he shot back sharply. “ Don’t 
be a quitter! Chan can’t come up to you in 
the long run. You know he’s flighty and 
temperamental and lacking in stay. One 
day he does well, but the next — ” 

“That may be all right,” admitted Gene, 


224 


CLIF STIRLING 


“but this is his day, I reckon. You ought to 
have seen him take the bar at five feet ten. It 
was just as easy as flying. And when I tried 
it — Why, even Kipper put it all over me!” 

He laughed. But his face was flushed and 
in his eyes lurked an expression that made 
Clif frown and grip the slimmer chap suddenly 
by both shoulders. 

“Cut that out, Gene!” he ordered harshly. 
“Cut it out! You’re crazy to let yourself get 
worked up like this over nothing. Look at 
the times you’ve out-jumped Channing!” 

“All out for the running high!” sud- 
denly interrupted the bellowing voice of the 
starter. 

A nervous quiver shot through Harmon. 
“There!” he exclaimed, with an instinctive 
movement toward the jumping bars. 

But Stirling held him tight for a second 
longer. “Think of those times, I tell you!” 
he went on with an odd mixture of seriousness 
and whimsicality. “And don’t hypnotize 
yourself into believing you’re sure to get 
licked. You can’t be! You’re going to do 
more than just win a place, too — you hear me! 
If you don’t beat out Channing and all the 
rest of them and come out on top of the heap 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 225 


Til — I’ll turn you over my knee right out in 
the middle of the campus and give you an old- 
fashioned tanning. Chase yourself now, and 
don’t forget.” 

With a hearty, encouraging slap on the 
back, he stripped off Harmon’s sweater and 
pushed him toward the group gathered about 
the starter. 

For a moment or two Gene was conscious 
of the tingle of that friendly blow, and his 
heart warmed to the spirit back of it. Then 
the sight of Herb Channing, his closest rival, 
moving toward the end of the course, sent 
every other thought out of his head. He 
was again enveloped in the gripping fear of 
failure — amounting almost to a certainty — 
that had so inexplicably laid hold of him at 
a time when he needed all his courage and 
self-confidence to bring him through the day 
triumphant. 

If only I hadn’t taken that trial jump it 
wouldn’t have been so bad,” he told himself. 
When he came on the field he had not planned 
anything of the sort. Being nervous and a 
little worked up, he had meant only to stroll 
around and try to recover his equilibrium by 
chatting with the fellows and watching the 

15 


226 


CLIF STIRLING 


other events. Then, in an unfortunate mo- 
ment, he had caught sight of Chan practising 
and taking the bar with the grace and seeming 
ease of a swallow soaring. On the impulse of 
the moment had come the resolve to emulate 
his rival. 

Like many impulses, it was a foolish one. 
Nervous and unprepared, Gene’s jump had 
been so wretched he was ashamed to try again, 
even with the hope of bettering it. It was his 
bad day, he decided. Every fellow has spells 
when he is off his feed and can’t seem to ac- 
complish much of anything. It was just his 
luck that, after showing up so well through 
all these weeks, he should slump woefully at 
the very moment when he wanted to do his 
best. 

Discouraged, the worried chap watched 
Channing flash down the course and clear the 
bar in perfect form. It was not a hard jump, 
to be sure, but the careless ease with which 
Chan took it betokened a large amount of 
reserve power. 

“I can’t come anywhere near him to-day,” 
sighed Gene, engulfed in a wave of the old 
lethargy. “ Probably I won’t even get a 
place. Here’s the end of all my work and 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 22 7 


effort. I’ll be out of the intercollegiate, and 
— good-bye to that little old ‘S’ I thought I’d 
have.” 

With sinking spirits he watched the con- 
testants, one by one, fly over the sod and take 
the bar. Of course they couldn’t help making 
it; it was set so low that even he could do that 
almost without trying. He was speculating 
morbidly over the point at which he was likely 
to fail when the starter roared out his name, 
making him jump nervously. He hurried 
over to take his position. 

In the second that he stood waiting, staring 
down the narrow lane that was hedged in by 
the crowd of interested and critical specta- 
tors he seemed really to understand for the 
first time what an idiot he had been to lose his 
grip on confidence. With a desperate effort 
he tried to pull himself together and fight down 
the nervousness that threatened to undo him. 
All too soon the signal sounded. Reluctantly 
he started forward and darted over the smooth 
turf. As he gathered himself for the leap he 
slipped a trifle. In mid air something grazed 
his foot, and as he landed lightly on the other 
side the clash and clatter of the falling bar 
smote on his strained senses like thunder. 


228 


CLIF STIRLING 


There was a moment of dead silence, in 
striking contrast to the applause that had 
greeted the other performers. Then, out of 
the stillness came a laugh, low and mirthful, 
yet with a sarcastic undercurrent that brought 
the angry color flaming into Harmon’s cheeks. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


THE RUNNING HIGH 

Gene was consumed with mortification. 
He had failed at a task in which even the 
least skilful of the candidates could not help 
succeeding. 

With a jerky movement, the boy whirled 
round and faced the crowd. On several faces 
there were smiles, more or less furtive, but 
only one man had laughed. Gene suspected 
F ahnestock. Meeting the sophomore’s suave, 
cynically amused glance, he was sure. His 
head went up with a defiant jerk. With eyes 
set straight ahead to keep from seeing the 
blank disappointment on the faces of Loring 
and several others of the squad, he trotted 
back for his second trial. 

At the end of the run, as he paused to turn, 
Clif Stirling’s careless, drawling voice came 
suddenly to his ears: 

“Quit fooling, chum, and go to it. Re- 
member what’s coming to you if you fizzle.” 

229 


230 


CLIF STIRLING 


Harmon shot a swift side glance at his room- 
mate’s smiling, confident face, and his own 
strained expression relaxed. He knew he had 
not been fooling; he knew Clif knew it, too. 
Nevertheless, he was grateful to his friend for 
the careless assumption that the exhibition 
he had just made was something in the nature 
of a joke. 

“I’ll do it!” he muttered under his breath. 
“I’ve got to do it just to show that cheap 
skate Fahnestock that I can.” 

Then he sprinted down the course and 
cleared the bar easily, with an inch or more to 
spare. He was heartened by the burst of 
applause that followed his successful perform- 
ance. 

When the bar was raised and his turn came 
again he did as well — did it without worry or 
fear of failure, too. Clif s confidence, and, in 
a somewhat lesser degree, Fahnestock’s sneer- 
ing laugh, had worked wonders toward re- 
storing his poise and self-assurance. He was 
no longer consumed with nervousness. With 
each upward move of the bar he recalled the 
many times he had made the height before 
and how easy it ought to be now. Each time 
he made it. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 231 


One by one the minor contestants dropped 
out. At length only three were left, Chan- 
ning, Harmon, and a Junior named Lacombe. 
At five feet eleven the latter failed. But 
Chan took the leap with as much apparent 
ease as if he were just starting the contest. 
At six feet it was the same thing; he looked as 
if he were barely trying. Gene, on the con- 
trary, was beginning to feel the strain. He 
was conscious of a slight touch of the old 
discouragement. It vanished swiftly, how- 
ever, at a glance from Stirling, who was now 
standing beside Loring. 

“Go to it,” the smiling eyes seemed to say. 
“You can do it if he can.” 

Gene obeyed the silent injunction. He 
cleared the six feet, and then, likewise, an 
added half inch. 

By this time the gathering crowd was thrill- 
ing restively to an unexpected possibility. 
The Stormbridge record for the running high 
was six feet two and one-half inches. When 
the two remaining contestants had cleared the 
wand just two inches under that an interested 
speculation swept through the crowd as to 
whether one or the other of them might chance 
to beat it. Many of the onlookers were hope- 


232 


CLIF STIRLING 


ful and optimistic. But the track captain 
shook his head dubiously. 

“It would be corking, of course,” he sighed; 
“but Fm afraid there’ll be nothing like that 
doing. Chan’s too erratic. He’s likely to 
give out any minute now, and when he does 
he’ll simply go all to smash quicker than you 
could say Jack Robinson.” 

“How about Harmon?” inquired Dig Low- 
ell, who had taken up his stand just behind 
the first row. “Why shouldn’t he — ” 

“He’d have a better chance if he’d been a 
bit longer in training,” returned Loring. 
“He’s got the makings of a dandy jumper. 
Another year — ” 

He paused as Channing flashed down the 
course. He took the bar at six feet one, but 
there was just the faintest touch of labor in 
his jump. Though this was unheeded by 
the majority of onlookers, it made Loring 
frown for a second. 

“He’s reached his limit,” muttered the 
captain under his breath, as the crowd cheered 
vociferously. “He won’t make it again.” 

The words were prophetic . Harmon j umped 
successfully, but when the bar was raised 
half an inch, and Channing tried for it, the 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 233 


thing came clattering down. Scowling, he 
strove again, straining every effort. This 
time he was worse than before. It was as if 
he had suddenly lost all power to hoist him- 
self into the air. He did not make a third 
attempt, but, turning away abruptly, pushed 
through the crowd and disappeared. 

“Too bad!” muttered Gene, staring after 
him sympathetically. “Bet he feels punk. 
I wish he hadn’t — ” 

But condolences, no matter how genuine, 
were a trifle premature. He had yet to make 
the jump himself. Though he had a curious 
conviction that he could do it, he would feel 
more comfortable when that feat had really 
been accomplished and the victory was his 
beyond a question of doubt. 

Summoning his reserve force, he sped over 
the turf. At the take-off he was smitten with 
a fear that one foot was going to strike the bar. 
It did not. With muscles flexible and arms 
outstretched, he cleared the wand without 
so much as ruffling the handkerchief. 

A burst of wild cheering greeted the suc- 
cessful accomplishment, and Gene’s heart 
warmed toward the fellows who seemed to 
rejoice so heartily in his triumph. Thankful 


234 


CLIF STIRLING 


that it was all over, he recovered himself and 
turned toward Loring and the others who 
were standing to one side of the bars. The 
applause continued with undiminished vigor, 
and presently began to be punctuated with 
shouts of “ Record! Record!” Harmon 
stared from Loring to Stirling in a puzzled 
fashion. 

“Why, what — ” 

“ You’ve come within an inch of the record,” 
explained the track team captain. “They 
want you to go on jumping, I reckon.” 

Gene caught his breath in a surprised gulp. 
He had never thought of this, and his first 
impulse was to decline — to get out of it by 
some excuse or other. It seemed something 
too big and important — too scary, almost — to 
attempt in this abrupt, impromptu fashion. 
With his lips parting before a hasty refusal, 
his startled gaze swept to Cliffs face, and some- 
how the words remained unuttered. There 
was an intangible something about his chum’s 
expression that stiffened the shy chap’s 
backbone and brought an unwonted touch of 
firmness to his jaw. Not a word passed be- 
tween the two. Presently Harmon glanced 
back at Loring. 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 235 

“Why, yes,” he answered quietly. “I'm 
perfectly willing to try, even if it doesn't 
amount to anything.'' 

“You'll do it,'' affirmed Stirling before the 
other man could speak. “Your trouble, old 
man, is that you don't know what a nice little 
jumper you really are. It's up to you to get 
out there and beat that record, chum, and be 
a credit to your uncle.” 

Harmon trotted briskly toward the starting- 
point, his face eager and determined. Evi- 
dently Clif did not realize that he had rather 
butted in between the captain of the track 
team and his crack jumper, but Loring did not 
remind him of it. The latter saw that Stir- 
ling's words had been a more valuable and 
effective stimulant than anything he himself 
could have said. Having attended to the 
raising of the bar, he bent forward and glanced 
down the course, a sudden flash of hope gleam- 
ing in his dark eyes. 

“Jingo!” he muttered under his breath. 
“Suppose he should make it!” 

Three minutes later his last trace of skepti- 
cism had vanished, leaving him as thrilled 
and eager and excited as the callowest fresh- 
man in the shouting mob that had gone 


236 CLIF STIRLING 

wild at the sight of Harmon's successful 
jump. 

“Corking, old chap — corking!" he ex- 
claimed, gripping Gene by both shoulders. 
“You've equalled the record! Now if you 
can only go another half inch — " 

“Equalled the record!" repeated Harmon 
in surprise. “Why, that's six feet, two and a 
half, and I only jumped six feet, two." 

“Come again," grinned Loring. “I put 
the bar up an inch last time. That's straight, 
old chap. Now all you have to do is jump 
another half inch, and you'll have the record 
for trials." 

Overjoyed, Gene stared at him for a moment 
in silence before starting down the course. 
The turmoil died down, and every eye was 
focussed on the slim, lithe figure of the sopho- 
more. Harmon's face was a trifle pale, but 
his jaw was set. Was he going to make it? 

Like an arrow from a bow, he darted down 
that narrow lane. At the take-off he left the 
ground in perfect form. Up, up he sailed, the 
hearts of the anxious onlookers standing still 
as they watched him. For an instant it 
seemed as if he actually hung suspended on the 
wrong side of the bar. Then, with a hitching 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 237 


jerk, he barely grazed it, dropping to the 
other side. 

An ear-splitting yell arose. In a moment 
Harmon was surrounded by a joyous mob, 
thumped, pounded, his hand almost shaken 
off in the exuberance of their enthusiasm. He 
simply grinned foolishly and let the fellows 
do what they wanted with him, wondering in 
a pleasant sort of daze whether it could pos- 
sibly be true that he, who had started out so 
nervous and sure of defeat, could actually 
have beaten a record. It seemed like the 
most absurd sort of farce. But Dig Lowell 
was earnestly congratulating him, and he 
heard Loring say delightedly: 

“Well, this is one event we’ll grab at the 
intercollegiate, thank goodness!” 

As the two chums were leaving the field 
Lowell again approached and asked if they 
would be at home that evening. Clif an- 
swered in the affirmative, but both he and 
Gene were so taken up with the latter’s 
triumph that the matter passed completely 
out of their minds. It was recalled only 
when the senior appeared at their door about 
half an hour after they came in from supper. 

He was in his most urbane humor. Pleas- 


238 


CLIF STIRLING 


ant, genial, yet without even a touch of the 
patronizing, he exerted that magnetism and 
charm of manner which gave him so large a 
measure of popularity throughout college. 
Again he complimented Gene delicately and 
sincerely on his triumph of the afternoon. 
Having told a new and amusing story, he 
leaned back in his chair, half-smiling, yet with 
a hint of gravity in his manner. 

“You fellows are probably wondering what 
brought me here,” he remarked. “That’s the 
penalty of being president of Theta Gamma, I 
suppose. My calls usually cause more or less 
speculation. Well, I won’t keep you guess- 
ing.” The smile vanished, his lips straight- 
ened a little; his eyes sought Harmon’s. “I 
wanted to find out your attitude toward our 
fraternity,” he stated quietly, “and how you 
would receive a request to pledge yourself 
to Theta Gamma.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


SURPRISE FOLLOWS SURPRISE 

Clif gave a start and stared at Lowell. 
The latter’s words meant a good deal more 
than they seemed to mean. It was, in fact, 
the form used in pledging a man. But the 
language was so non-committal that, in the 
remote possibility of a refusal of the proffered 
honor, a man could never afterward boast that 
he had “ turned down Theta Gamma.” If 
his attitude proved favorable, the frat man 
would proceed, of course, to the actual 
pledging. 

What puzzled Stirling was that, though a 
vote of the entire active chapter had to be 
taken on every prospective member, this was 
the first he had heard of Gene’s acceptability 
as a candidate. Lowell must have sensed his 
surprise; for, before Harmon had a chance to 
answer, the older fellow turned to Clif. 

“This is a bit informal, old chap,” he said in 
a low tone; “but, having a special reason for 
239 


240 


CLIF STIRLING 


not wanting to wait for the regulation busi- 
ness, I got the fellows’ votes to-day, separ- 
ately. Naturally, I knew what yours would 
be, so I didn’t bother to ask you. Well, how 
about it?” he added, glancing back at the 
astonished Harmon. 

The latter did not reply at once, but stood 
motionless, opening and shutting his hands 
mechanically. 

“I don’t quite understand,” he said at last. 
“Do you mean that you’re thinking of me for 
a — a member?” 

Lowell smiled. “It practically amounts 
to that,” he admitted graciously. “In fact, 
I think that I may take it upon myself to 
state that your election will be assured as soon 
as you give me the authority to go ahead. Is 
that what you wanted to know?” 

Harmon nodded. “Yes, I wasn’t sure that 
was what you meant.” 

“And you’ll say yes, of course,” smiled 
Lowell, so sure of his ground that he permitted 
himself a latitude he would have been quick 
to condemn in anyone else. 

Gene’s slim figure stiffened and his chin was 
tilted ever so slightly. “I’m sorry,” he said 
quietly, “but I’m afraid I can’t.” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 241 


It was like a bombshell thrown into the 
midst of the quiet study. Clif’s thoughts 
were wrenched rudely from the pleasant paths 
along which they had been wandering — paths 
which he and Gene might tread at last, with- 
out a single secret or reserve between them. 
He stared, wondering whether his chum had 
taken leave of his senses. Lowell, amazed 
and incredulous, let slip for an instant his 
admirable self-control. 

“ You can’t!” he snapped. Then he caught 
himself. “ Indeed!” he murmured slowly. 
But even now there was a glint in his narrowed 
eyes and a slight edge to the suavity of his 
mellow voice. “ Perhaps you wouldn’t mind 
explaining what the trouble is? You’re not 
pledged to any other crowd, are you?” 

Harmon reached out and caught the back 
of a nearby chair with both slim, muscular 
hands. The movement brought his face into 
the direct light of the double student lamp, and 
Clif noted with surprise that the soft, almost 
girlish curves of lip and cheek and chin seemed 
to have vanished, giving place to decisive 
lines and angles. His face was still flushed 
and his manner embarrassed, but the glance 
he bent on Lowell was level and unwavering. 


16 


242 


CLIF STIRLING 


“No, it isn’t that,” he said in a low tone. 
“I don’t want to join any fraternity here, 
that’s all.” 

The senior looked puzzled. “But why?” 
he persisted. “You must have some reason. 
Surely you don’t disapprove of fraternities 
in general?” 

Gene’s chin went up and his lips were 
pressed tightly together. “I’ll tell you the 
reason since you’re so keen to know. It’s not 
that I disapprove of fraternities in general. 
I think they’re all right, as a rule, but I 
haven’t any use for the — er — the policy that 
seems to govern the frats here at Stormbridge. 
All you fellows seem to care for is men of 
prominence of one sort or another, mostly 
athletic. A chap’s character, what he really 
is, isn’t half so important as the fact that he 
happens to have made the varsity baseball or 
stands a show to do the hundred in half a 
second less than anybody else in college.” 

Lowell reddened under his tan. “What 
bunk!” he exclaimed. “That’s a most un- 
fair and absurd statement, Harmon. Why, 
one of the best fellows we’ve got has never in 
his life done anything more athletic than in- 
dulge in an occasional game of golf.” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 243 

“You mean Hope? Possibly not; but he 
happened to be editor of the Courier , presi- 
dent of the debating society and prominent 
in quite a few other things that count. Be- 
sides, he’s about the only non-athletic fellow 
in the bunch, isn’t he?” 

He paused expectantly, but Lowell, though 
he seemed at first on the point of hot rejoinder, 
did not speak. Clif stood to one side, marvel- 
ing at his roommate’s unexpected poise and 
appearance of strength. 

“ You wanted to know, and so I’ve told you, 
Lowell,” Gene went on with a touch of apology 
in his voice. “It’s not that I have anything 
against any one of the fellows. It’s the sys- 
tem. It doesn’t seem the right way to size 
up men. It sort of puts a premium on the 
wrong thing. Take me, for instance. I’m 
exactly the same fellow I was a year ago, no 
better, no worse, any way you choose to put 
it. But last year you wouldn’t have thought 
of asking me to join Theta Gamma. It’s 
only the fact that I’ve had luck in jumping 
that’s made me a possible candidate. Isn’t 
that so? And you know I might be a cheap 
skate, with no morals at all, and still be able to 
jump. Would that make any difference?” 


244 


CLIF STIRLING 


“The question is rather beside the point,” 
returned Lowell coldly. “In fact, the whole 
discussion seems futile and in bad taste. I’m 
sorry you happen to feel as you do. But, of 
course, with such scruples, you could have 
hardly answered my inquiry” — he emphasized 
the word — “favorably. Good-night. Can I 
see you outside for a minute, Clif?” 

Without waiting for a reply he left the 
room, Stirling close at his heels. The in- 
stant the door closed, however, Lowell 
whirled on the sophomore, with an irritated 
frown. 

“Fine business!” he commented tartly. 
“This is your work, I suppose. I thought I 
recognized some of that familiar tommyrot 
I’ve heard you — ” 

“Hold up, Dig,” put in Clif quietly. “You’re 
barking up the wrong tree. Whatever I’ve 
felt, I’ve never said a word about frat busi- 
ness to Gene. This is his own idea, and it 
surprised me as much as it did you. To tell 
the truth, I didn’t think he had it in him.” 

“Had it in him!” repeated Lowell sharply. 
“You talk as though you thought that high- 
faluting truck was something to be proud of.” 

“It isn’t every fellow who will turn down a 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 245 


bid from Theta Gamma because of a prin- 
ciple, ” retorted Stirling. “That's something 
to be proud of, isn't it? Anyhow, I'm proud 
of him for sticking to his colors and for put- 
ting up the argument he did. Even if I've 
never talked to him about it, it's practically 
what I've always thought myself." 

His concluding sentence seemed in the 
nature of a last straw to the irritated senior. 
A dull flush crept into the handsome face and 
the shapely lips straightened into a thin, hard 
line. When he spoke his voice was sharp and 
brittle and sarcastic: 

“Sometimes I wonder, Stirling, just why 
you ever came to us at all." 

The words had no sooner left his lips than 
he seemed to regret the impulse that gave them 
birth. He made no apology, but, as he swiftly 
followed the speech with a hurried good-night 
afid turned toward the stairs, his manner was 
expressive. 

Clif watched him out of sight and then gave 
a sigh. “I reckon I ought not to have said 
that," he murmured. “I sort of forgot that 
Dig's a senior and a mighty big man here at 
Stormbridge. It must be pretty aggravating 
to be criticized by a mere underclassman, 


246 


CLIF STIRLING 


especially when all the time he really has the 
good of the fraternity at heart.” 

Back in the study, he encountered his room- 
mate’s anxious gaze. In fact, the door was 
scarcely closed behind him before Gene 
burst out with a troubled, questioning, 
“Well?” 

Clif shrugged his shoulders. “Well, your- 
self?” he retorted in a slightly quizzical tone. 
“Expound thyself a little more clearly.” 

Harmon fidgeted. “Was he — er — pretty 
mad?” 

Clif grinned. “Not what you’d call ex- 
actly serene,” he chuckled. “Irritation isn’t 
very becoming to Dig.” 

But Gene could not be beguiled into crack- 
ing a smile. “I s’pose it was a fool thing to 
say,” he admitted mournfully. “I’d no busi- 
ness to do any more than just tell him yes or 
no. It wasn’t up to me to criticize your frat, 
chum, and I didn’t mean — Well, you know 
I haven’t anything against any of the fellows 
personally. It’s just the — er — I suppose you’d 
call it the policy. Oh, say it! Spit it out, 
why don’t you? I know you’re thinking 
what a chump I was to turn down such a 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 247 


“You wise owl!” Clif made a sudden dive, 
and, throwing Gene backward into a Morris 
chair, proceeded thoroughly to muss up his 
blond hair. “How long since you took up 
mind reading for a diversion — hey? What 
the deuce do you know about my innermost 
thoughts? You came an awful long ways 
from the bull's-eye that time, let me tell you. 
I happened to be wondering how in time you 
were able to entertain all these revolutionary 
notions without yours truly getting wise. 
How about it?” 

Harmon's face brightened. “You mean 
you don't think I was a fool to refuse?” 

“Certainly not. Any fellow's got a right 
to his opinions, hasn't he? What I'm curious 
about is how long you've felt this way and 
how you were able to have these decided ideas 
on the fraternity question without my even 
getting a hint of it.” 

“I hadn't the least idea I'd be approached 
to join, but when Lowell spoke about it just 
now it came over me in a flash that I — couldn't. 
Maybe I was a little sore at being left out 
last year. But it wasn't all that, chum. Of 
course I've^said nothing to you, but I couldn't 
help noticing how some of the frats pick their 


248 


CLIF STIRLING 


men, and it seemed — well, it sort of puts a 
premium on athletics and belittles everything 
else. When a fellow like Fahnestock can be 
taken up — ” 

“ Fahnestock !” exclaimed Clif sharply. 
“You don’t mean to say that he’s been — ” 

“Not yet, but everybody says it’s only a 
question of time. You know yourself when 
he and Wick split and he took a little room 
over on Warren Street it was agreed that he 
only meant it for a stop-gap until he could 
move into one of the frat houses — Delta Chi 
or — ” Gene bit off the remainder of the 
sentence with some abruptness. 

Stirling seemed not to notice Harmon’s 
momentary embarrassment. The mention of 
Fahnestock’s name in this new connection 
had brought a frown of annoyance to his face. 
He had known that the fellow was beginning 
to be noticed by several of the fraternities, 
but somehow the possibility of his election 
by one of Delta Chi’s recognized importance 
had not occurred to him. Having arrived at 
a definite conclusion concerning Fahnestock’s 
character, Clif believed the man unfit for 
membership in any of Stormbridge’s societies. 

During the next few days he pondered not 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 249 


a little over the course he should follow. He 
had a number of good friends in the rival 
fraternity, and the possibility that they might 
take the irrevocable step of electing Fahne- 
stock a brother member went much against 
the grain. 

But what could he do? Not only was it 
against all ethics to refer to such a matter with 
the members of another frat, but Clif’s pon- 
dering made him realize how little proof he 
had against the fellow. With an irritating 
sense of impotence, he recalled Fahnestock’s 
remarks on the night of their curious interview 
in the latter’s rooms. Lester had stated 
that it was merely a question of one man’s 
word against the other’s. It really seemed 
that Stirling’s hands were tied. 

At the regular Monday evening meeting of 
Clif’s own fraternity, after a jolly dinner and 
a little subsequent horse-play, he sought the 
assembly room with the others and took his 
place at the extreme rear of the hall between 
Dick Madison and Tom Ferguson, both class- 
mates. The opening ceremonies over, the 
meeting proceeded along regular lines, nothing 
of special interest arising until the report of 
the committee on new members was called. 


250 


CLIF STIRLING 


Then Lowell arose from the presidents chair 
and faced the assemblage. 

“As chairman of the committee,” he said 
in his low, drawly tones, “I will make the 
report to-night myself. I regret to say that 
the matter of Mr. Harmon, which was brought 
up informally during the week, has fallen 
through. Mr. Harmon, if approached, would 
undoubtedly decline to pledge himself to 
Theta Gamma.” 

A low murmur of surprise ran around the 
room. Many of the fellows glanced in puzzled 
inquiry at Stirling, and Madison gave him a 
surreptitious dig in the ribs with his elbow. 
“What in time’s the matter with you?” he 
whispered. “You haven’t been asleep at the 
switch, have you, and let the Delts grab 
him?” 

Clif shook his head. 

Chauncey Hope arose and gained the at- 
tention of the chair. “May I ask, brother 
President,” inquired the serious-faced senior, 
“whether we have been too slow and allowed 
him to commit himself elsewhere?” 

Lowell permitted himself the luxury of a 
faintly sarcastic smile. “So far as I can 
gather, no. Mr. Harmon appears to have 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 251 


constitutional objections to all fraternities at 
Stormbridge. At least, he has announced a 
very positive determination of staying out of 
everything. I think we may consider the 
matter closed. This leaves us with one more 
sophomore possibility for the elections next 
month. Of course it isn’t obligatory for us 
to take in the full number allowed us at the 
end of the sophomore year, but when we still 
have some admirable material to draw from it 
would be a pity not to do so. I therefore sug- 
gest for consideration by the brothers the 
name of Lester Fahnestock.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE TIDE AGAINST HIM 

Clif was unable to credit the evidence of 
his hearing. For two days he had been worry- 
ing at intervals over the possibility of this 
thing coming to Delta Chi, but in all that time 
he had never dreamed of Fahnestock’s being 
proposed for his own fraternity. The very 
thought of the fellow here brought Clif to his 
feet with a jerk, his face flaming, his hands 
clenched. He burst out impulsively in the 
middle of one of Lowell’s modulated, well- 
rounded sentences: 

“I object! The man isn’t — ” 

“ Brother Stirling is out of order,” reminded 
Lowell in his cool, authoritative manner. v 
“But I—” 

“The chair still has the floor. Brother 
Stirling will have ample opportunity later to 
express any views he may have on the sub- 
ject.” 

Clif dropped back upon his seat. After 

252 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 253 

waiting a bit, Lowell went on with his re- 
marks: 

“As I started to say, it is hardly necessary 
to dwell at length on Mr. Fahnestock's good 
qualities. He is prominent in his class, popu- 
lar, and well up in his studies. Personally, I 
have found him a very good sort indeed. He 
will undoubtedly be an important member of 
the varsity pitching staff. Considering our 
small representation on the team, it seems to 
me this fact alone ought to count for a good 
deal. To have any chance at all for the 
assistant managership next year, we ought to 
have at least two more men on the nine, and I 
don't know of a better opportunity to secure 
one of them than this." 

After another pause he continued with the 
faintest touch of sarcasm in his voice: 

“Of course this is merely my opinion. Ap- 
parently Brother Stirling holds different views. 
Before he takes the floor, however, I would 
remind him that personal prejudice alone has 
never been deemed sufficient ground for bar- 
ring a man from consideration here. We are 
all supposed to place the good of the fraternity 
first. If any brother doesn't happen to fancy 
a candidate because of purely personal reasons, 


254 


CLIF STIRLING 


it is his duty to conquer that distaste and not 
allow it to prejudice him against the candi- 
date.” 

He resumed his seat, and the glances shifted 
curiously to Clif Stirling. 

The latter arose slowly, almost reluctantly. 
The first rush of rebellion had passed, leaving 
him still full of stubborn, bitter protest; but 
he was thoroughly alive to the difficulties of 
his position. As his thoughts flashed back 
over the various offences he had chalked up to 
the credit of Lester Fahnestock he was be- 
numbed by the mountain of difficulty that 
confronted him. Without proof, whatever he 
might say against the man would savor 
strongly of that personal prejudice Lowell had 
pointedly warned him against. The silence 
grew awkward. Realizing that he must say 
something, Clif finally spoke it, in sheer des- 
peration. 

“It isn't just prejudice,” he protested. 
“I admit I don’t like Fahnestock. Still, we 
used to be friendly enough until — until I 
found him out. He really isn’t the sort of 
man we want, fellows. He — he’s not the sort 
who’ll ever make us proud of being Theta 
Gammas. On the contrary, for one, I would 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 255 


be ashamed to have him for a fraternity 
brother.” 

He paused, aware how vague and almost 
melodramatic his words sounded. Of course 
someone at once asked for a detailed explana- 
tion of the innuendoes, and when he had told 
all that he could tell he perceived at once, from 
the expression on the majority of faces, that 
the members considered the whole affair 
rather in the nature of a tempest in a tea- 
pot. 

To them it seemed like an ordinary breach 
between two rivals, deepened and kept open, 
perhaps, by professional jealousy. In fact, 
it was difficult to credit any student, much less 
a fellow of Fahnestock’s gentlemanly bearing 
and charm of manner, with unscrupulousness. 
Several of the older men did not hesitate to 
express that opinion. 

Lowell was one of these. Perhaps there 
may have been a sting in his well-modulated 
speech which made it hurt more than the 
good-natured comment of the others. Of late 
Stirling had given him cause enough for the 
venting of a little spleen. It is probable that 
Clif would have had nothing more to say had 
not the older chap, full of zeal for the frater- 


256 


CLIF STIRLING 


nity and eager to impress his point, repeated 
with emphasis that statement concerning the 
urgent need of more baseball material in the 
chapter in order to make any sort of success- 
ful fight for the assistant managership next 
year. 

To Clif, chafing under the sense of impotent 
helplessness that had followed his failure to 
impress the men with Fahnestock’s undesir- 
ability, the speech was like a spark to powder. 
The barrier of silence and self-restraint was 
shattered, and the pent-up flood of protest 
poured out with a rush that astounded the 
assembled fellows, most of whom knew nothing 
of the weeks and months it had been silently 
gathering volume. 

It was all so swift and impulsive that Clif 
could afterward recall very little of what he 
said. He only remembered protesting with a 
vehemence that was almost bitter against that 
phase of the fraternity’s policy. He urged 
the abandonment of the athletic standard for 
membership, calling it calculating and com- 
mercial and likely altogether to alter the tone 
of the fraternity. He made a good many 
other remarks. At last, because ofjjhis very 
earnestness, coupled with his inexpertness as 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 257 


a speaker, he began to repeat and to be a 
little incoherent. 

Lowell’s inexpressive face, on which Clif’s 
gaze was mostly fixed, did not change, but 
here and there about the room a fellow moved 
uneasily. Some yawned. Of a sudden Clif 
realized this, flushed, stammered, stumbled 
haltingly to an awkward conclusion, and sat 
down. He was conscious that he hadn’t 
made at all the sort of impression he had 
hoped and intended to make. 

Followed a rather lengthy pause, fraught 
with traces of embarrassment, before Chaun- 
cey Hope arose and addressed the chair. 

“ Are we to understand, Brother President,” 
he began in his deliberate fashion, peering the 
while through his thick-lensed spectacles, 
“that Brother Stirling’s criticism has any- 
thing personal in it? Is it simply directed 
against a policy , or does he feel that there have 
already been men elected to the fraternity 
who don’t measure up to the standard?” 

Clif’s eyes widened, and for a moment he 
couldn’t respond to Lowell’s questioning 
glance. “No,” he answered at last in a voice 
which expressed a. little of his own surprise at 
the sudden realization. “Of course not!” 


17 


258 


CLIF STIRLING 


Of the two-score men assembled in the room 
there wasn’t one he would willingly have 
dropped from the rolls of Theta Gamma. “I 
didn’t intend to be personal. I was objecting 
to the policy — the idea that because a chap’s 
a. good athlete it must follow he’s all right in 
every other way for the fraternity.” 

Hope smiled. “I see what you mean, but 
are you sure that policy prevails here, as you 
think it does? Don’t you suppose that other 
qualities, or lack of them, count also in our 
sizing up of a man?” 

Clif shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t 
think they count as much,” he answered. 
“ That’s proved by the very fact that there 
aren’t six men out of the whole forty-one in 
the chapter who are not well up in some form 
or another of athletics. And those six — if 
there are that many — are all fellows of promi- 
nence in other lines.” 

“ Brother Stirling must realize,” interposed 
Lowell, “that some standard for new members 
is necessary. A fraternity has a reputation to 
uphold, as well as an individual. In past 
years Theta Gamma gained her reputation by 
prominence in various college activities, not- 
ably athletic. The idea has always worked 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 259 

satisfactorily, and remained unquestioned up 
to now. But perhaps” — the speaker’s voice 
took on a touch of sarcasm — “ perhaps the 
sophomore brother may have some other sub- 
stitute to offer that would materially improve 
the general tone of the frat.” 

At best Clif was embarrassed and uncertain 
in speaking before a crowd, even when that 
crowd was made up of his own fraternity 
mates. Now Lowell’s evident hostility and 
the feeling that the majority of others were 
either unsympathetic or openly against him 
wrought still more confusion in his ideas. 
Milling around in the back of his brain was 
the belief that the standard every fraternity 
ought to have was character. New members 
should be selected not so much for what they 
had done as for what they thought and stood 
for. They ought, in short, to be men first, 
and athletes, editors, presidents of glee clubs 
and so forth afterward. 

This was what Clif felt, but he couldn’t 
seem to put it into words. Therefore he 
stumbled and stammered along, getting more 
and more involved and making a less and less 
favorable impression. Finally he sat down 
abruptly, with the feeling that he had made an 


260 


CLIF STIRLING 


exhibition of himself without accomplishing 
a particle of good. 

There was one retort he might have made 
to Lowell’s statement that the application of 
the so-called athletic standard had always 
worked well enough in the past — the retort 
that in the past the leading spirits of the 
fraternity must have used moderation and dis- 
crimination, instead of being carried off their 
feet and obsessed by the idea, as Dig seemed 
to be. 

Clif thought of this in time, but he could 
not bring himself to inject any more personal- 
ities into an altercation that already ap- 
proached perilously close to bitterness and 
ill feeling. 

He took no part in the remainder of the 
discussion concerning Fahnestock’s desira- 
bility. He had said all he could against the 
fellow. If they still chose to take him up he 
was helpless. Nevertheless, his inward pro- 
testing continued until the climax came in a 
decision to have the man up to the house 
some time during the week for the customary 
looking over. 

“And remember,” cautioned Lowell in his 
brisk, earnest manner, “ every fellow ought to 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 261 


lunch here that day. We haven’t any time 
to waste in the matter. If we’re going to 
take him we’ll have to make up our minds 
pretty quick. Delta Chi and two or three 
of the other frats are right on his heels.” 

“ There’s one person who won’t be here,” 
muttered Clif to himself as the discussion 
passed on to another subject. “ I’ll be hanged 
if I will! I’ll be hanged, too, if I stay in the 
same frat with the mucker! If he should be 
elected over my black ball I’ll get out. I’ll 
resign!” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


ONE BACKER 

Clif meant it. At the moment he was 
disgruntled with the entire chapter. As soon 
as the formal part of the meeting was over he 
slipped away, without waiting for the pleas- 
ant, intimate chat and fun that always fol- 
lowed in the big living room or out on the 
wide, tiled veranda that overlooked the street. 

In the morning the dismal feeling that every 
man’s hand was against him had waned con- 
siderably, but he still held fast to his deter- 
mination to remain away from the house the 
day Fahnestock was invited up there. 

“I’ll show them I haven’t changed my 
mind about it,” he decided. “ Perhaps, after 
they’ve looked him over carefully and sized 
him up, there’ll be somebody willing to join 
me in holding out against him.” 

In an election to Theta Gamma two black 
balls were all that was necessary to insure re- 
jection, and it would be strange if at least one 
262 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 263 


other fellow out of the entire fraternity didn’t 
take Stirling’s view of the candidate. The 
conviction caused Clif to thrust the matter 
from his mind and turn his attention to base- 
ball again. 

When Fahnestock lunched at the house on 
Friday Stirling was conspicuous by his ab- 
sence. He fully expected to be taken to task 
by Lowell, but nothing of the sort happened. 
In fact, Dig did not even refer to it when they 
met in the gym late that afternoon, and Clif 
would not bring it up himself, curious though 
he was to learn what sort of an impression his 
enemy had made. 

That same feeling kept him silent all 
through the next morning’s lectures and reci- 
tations. He waited for someone else to 
broach the subject. In Math he sat between 
Dick Madison and Tom Ferguson, but neither 
of them made the slightest reference to Fahne- 
stock. 

It was not until he reached the field that 
afternoon that his unspoken question received 
an answer. The team was playing Lakeview 
High, and Fahnestock started off on the 
mound. From his place on the bench Clif 
did not fail to observe the air of friendliness, 


264 


CLIF STIRLING 


almost of intimacy, with which all the Thets 
present treated the sophomore pitcher. It 
wasn’t at all effusive, but it brought a grim 
look into Clif Stirling’s eyes. When Garry 
Wayne dropped down beside him in the 
middle of the fifth he was more than half 
ready for what the chap had to say. 

“Look here, old man,” Wayne remarked 
after a little preliminary skirmishing, “are 
you quite sure you’re not a bit prejudiced 
against Fahnestock?” 

“ Prejudiced? Of course I am ! You would 
be if you knew the things about him that I 
do.” 

“But I mean unreasonably prejudiced,” 
Wayne hastened to explain. “Isn’t it pos- 
sible you’ve let your dislike for him warp your 
judgment and make you a bit unjust? You 
see he made such a good impression on every- 
body yesterday that it’s hard to believe — ” 

“Of course he did!” interposed Clif warmly. 
“Why shouldn’t he? He knew what he was 
there for, didn’t he? He knew he was being 
looked over and sized up for Theta Gamma, 
and he’s no fool. Of course he made a good 
impression.” 

Wayne’s freckled face wrinkled up in a 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 265 


comical note of disagreement. “But it didn’t 
seem like that sort of made-to-order business,” 
he protested. “Why, I liked him, Clif — I 
liked him fine!” 

“So did I before I found him out,” said 
Stirling. “I don’t see why you fellows won’t 
take my word that he’s what he is, without 
demanding all kinds of proof. I’m not in the 
habit of trying to ruin a fellow-man’s reputa- 
tion because of — ” He broke off abruptly, 
realizing that he was merging on the melo- 
dramatic. “Look here, Garry,” he went on, 
moved by a sudden inspiration, “I’ll tell you 
this: if Fahnestock is elected I drop out.” 

Wayne caught his breath. “You wouldn’t!” 

Clif nodded. “I’d hate to, but I couldn’t 
stand for him as a fraternity brother. I’d 
rather drop the whole shooting match.” 

Wayne pursed his lips and gave a softly 
expressive whistle. “That’s different,” he 
said abruptly. “I didn’t realize it was that 
bad.” 

He sat silent for a moment or two, rapping 
on the bench with his fingers. Then he looked 
up at Stirling and smiled. “Reckon I’ll have 
to join the small but extremely select minority 
and get my little black ball in working order. 


266 


CLIF STIRLING 


If we stick tight, you and I can keep him out 
all by our lonesomes, can’t we? But won’t 
Dig rave!” 

It scarcely needed a prophet to hazard such 
a statement as that. Clif nodded instant 
agreement. His set expression relaxed and 
his eyes shone because of this unexpected 
acquisition to the forces of revolt. A man 
may fight ever so bravely and persistently 
alone, but such fighting always seems to lack 
some of the dash and verve and spirit that 
comes with the feel of a friendly shoulder 
against one’s own and the sound of a friendly 
voice giving encouragement. 

Stirling’s foreboding over what the next 
weekly meeting of the chapter might bring 
forth vanished at once. If Garry backed him 
up, he would have the whip hand. Instead 
of awaiting Monday evening in troubled un- 
easiness, he began to look forward to it with a 
certain grim satisfaction. 

The meeting proved one of the most stirring 
either of the sophomores had experienced. 
Lowell was still determined to bring Fahne- 
stock into the chapter. Clif suspected that, 
in addition to his desire to secure what he con- 
sidered valuable material for the fraternity, 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 267 


the senior meant to use this occasion to bring 
matters to a head and discourage any further 
rebellion against his authority by under- 
classmen. 

At all events, Digby had turned the affair 
into a small campaign. Not content with 
the very favorable impression Fahnestock 
seemed to have made, Lowell had gone about 
among the fellows and talked up the candidate, 
urging everybody to come to a decision before 
Monday night. And when the time came he 
boldly called for a vote on the question, point- 
ing out in defense of this unusual haste that 
if they didn’t settle the matter at once they 
would unquestionably lose their man to one 
of the other frats. 

Clif had often said that Lowell could make 
a person believe anything if only he believed 
in it himself and wanted to convince the other 
party. He had an extraordinary gift of argu- 
ment and a convincing power of persuasion, 
both of which he now used to such purpose 
that Stirling was thankful Garry had com- 
mitted himself beyond any possibility of 
drawing back. The two were seated together 
in a corner, and when Lowell finished speak- 
ing Wayne looked thoughtfully at his friend. 


268 


CLIF STIRLING 


“Dig sounds awful convincing,” he whis- 
pered. “You sure you’re right, Clif?” 

“Dead sure.” 

W ayne shrugged his shoulders. ‘ ‘ Right-o ! ’ 7 
he murmured, taking a slip of paper from the 
chap who was passing them. “I’m game. 
Here goes.” 

He said it with an odd grimace and such 
an exaggerated, shivery imitation of a person 
taking a plunge into cold water, that Stirling 
grinned. 

Nevertheless, when he had written his 
laconic “No” on the bit of paper and folded 
it twice, according to the rules, Clif found 
himself unexpectedly nervous. Suppose their 
negatives should be the only ones turned in? 
It was a bit unpleasant to think of bucking 
the whole fraternity. Nevertheless, Clif could 
not see what the others could do further than 
to show their displeasure by a little momen- 
tary coolness. 

In silence the two saw the papers taken 
up, and watched Lowell unfold and read them. 
When he came to the first negative they knew 
it at once by his lifted eyebrows and expression 
of tolerant disdain. However, he had been 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 269 


expecting one, so the discovery did not greatly 
disturb him. 

Apparently, by some odd chance, the two 
negative votes, handed in practically together, 
had become separated. Lowell’s expression 
grew more and more hopeful and assured as 
the affirmatives piled up and the unopened 
papers decreased. When only three were left 
he began to smile a little, and the faint lines 
vanished from his forehead. The smile deep- 
ened as he twitched open one of them and 
tossed it on the larger pile. The second fol- 
lowed. Clif was just beginning to fear that 
something had happened to the other black 
ball when he saw that Lowell had found it in 
the last ballot. 

As he sat staring at the discovery Digby’s 
face darkened, his eyes narrowed, and he shot 
a suspicious glance at Stirling and Garry 
Wayne. A moment later, having tossed the 
scrap of paper from him, he rose to his feet. 

“ There are two black balls,” he announced. 
“That knocks it on the head as effectually as 
twenty would have done.” He paused and 
drew himself up a little. 

“It’s rather discouraging,” he went on, “to 
work hard for the good of the frat, only to 


270 


CLIF STIRLING 


have all one’s labor made of no avail by this 
sort of thing. It’s not very encouraging, es- 
pecially when the deadlock is undoubtedly 
caused by men who rarely if ever lift a finger 
to help out in such matters. It’s very easy 
to raise a cry against some fellow just because 
you don’t happen to like the cut of his jib 
or the color of his tie. But I don’t notice the 
chronic kickers ever showing up with a sub- 
stitute. They’re ready to turn a man down, 
but they haven’t time to hunt around and dig 
up possible material to take his place.” 

He paused and let his glance wander’slowly 
around the room. It lingered, almost point- 
edly, on the flushed faces of the two sopho- 
mores in the corner before returning* to older 
fellows nearer at hand. 

“ Theta Gamma has got to have men,” he 
stated positively. “To keep our place at the 
head of the fraternities at Stormbridge we 
ought to have our full quota of members — of 
the sort and calibre we’ve always chosen. 
Here’s a man, measuring up to standard, who 
makes a fine impression on practically every- 
body, yet he receives two black balls. It 
seems to me it’s up to the fellows who voted 
against him to think over pretty carefully 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 271 


what I’ve said and either change those votes 
before the next meeting or else bring forward 
something a lot more definite, against him than 
anything we’ve yet listened to. That’s all. 
I’ll call for the election again a week from to- 
night. Is there any further discussion?” 

There was — considerable. Chauncey Hope 
arose and had. his say; so did several more of 
the older members. With less harshness, per- 
haps, but with, equal earnestness, they backed 
up Lowell. By* the time they had finished 
Clif felt that he really had no right to involve 
Wayne in the disagreeable business, and, 
moved by a sudden impulse, he bent closer to 
the latter. 

“ You’d better skin out while the skinning 
is good, Garry,” he whispered. “Dig takes it 
harder than I. thought he would!” 

Wayne grunted. “You going to stick?” 

“Sure, but—” 

“Then. I will, too. I never did like being 
bossed much. Dig doesn’t own us, body and 
soul, even if he is head of the chapter. We’ve 
got the right to have opinions of* our own, 
haven’t we? Well, I’ve shown what mine 
is, and all this talk isn’t going to make me 
change it.” 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE TREACHEROUS TRAIL 

If Wayne had had any idea of what he 
was getting into he might not have been so 
ready to take part in an affair that was really 
Cliffs. Personally, he had absolutely nothing 
against Fahnestock, but he was greatly at- 
tached to Stirling. Having once joined forces 
with the latter, even though his action was 
more or less the result of impulse, any attempt 
to force him to change his mind only made 
him more determined not to give way. 

Of course none of these attempts was made 
openly. Personal discussion of any sort on 
such matters was against the traditions of 
the fraternity, since no one was even sup- 
posed to know who had cast the black balls. 
It was evident, nevertheless, that pressure was 
being constantly brought to bear on the two 
delinquents. At first this consisted mainly in 
veiled remarks and innuendoes, and in state- 
ments and harangues addressed apparently 

272 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 273 


to each other, but always made in the presence 
of Stirling or Wayne. 

When this method was seen to have no 
effect there was brought into play what Garry 
termed the “ cold-storage stuff.” The dis- 
pleasure of the fraternity was made manifest 
by a distinct chilliness on the part of indi- 
vidual members toward the offending pair. 
Whenever the latter appeared laughter died, 
conversation languished, groups broke up, 
and there was a general lack of interest in any 
subject they might introduce. It was, in 
short, a mild case of sending to Coventry. 
Applied to such lads as Stirling and Garry 
Wayne, it was absolutely ineffective. 

It was odd that Chauncey Hope or some 
of the older or less impulsive lads did not see 
this. Strange, too, that they did not realize 
how entirely such behavior was against all 
fraternity spirit and traditions. The trouble 
lay in the fact that they were carried away by 
Lowell’s personality, magnetism and plausible 
arguments. Lowell himself was obsessed and 
blinded by what he felt to be the necessity of 
having his way in this particular instance. 

Clif noticed a sudden but unmistakable 
alteration in Fahnestock’s attitude. The old 


18 


274 


CLIF STIRLING 


bantering, quizzical manner had vanished. 
When it was necessary to address Clif he did 
so with a cold, curt abruptness that matched 
the hostile glint in his dark eyes. If there had 
ever been any truth in his statement, made to 
Stirling that night in his rooms, that no touch 
of personal dislike tinged his feeling for his 
rival, it was there no longer. 

“He knows!” muttered Clif to himself. 
“He’s been put wise somehow that I’m keep- 
ing him out of Theta Gamma.” His eyes 
snapped indignantly. “I never heard of 
such a thing — talking about frat matters 
with an outsider.” 

He could scarcely believe the punctilious 
Lowell was guilty, yet there was no other 
plausible explanation. Fahnestock and Low- 
ell were almost constantly together these 
days, and, jvhile the fraternity man might not 
have actually said it in so many words, there 
were various subtle ways by which he could 
let Fahnestock know who was to blame for 
holding up his election to Theta Gamma. 

The belief that something of the kind had 
happened merely tended to intensify the stub- 
born opposition of Stirling and Wayne. They 
began going around almost constantly to- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 275 


gether. With Gene Harmon, a friendly trio 
was formed. They occupied adjoining seats 
in class rooms and at lectures. In a row they 
tramped about the campus and to and from 
the field, and spent as much time as possible in 
each other’s company. When one of the regu- 
lar hare and hound chases was announced in 
the gym late Thursday, to take place the fol- 
lowing afternoon, all three promptly entered 
their names and planned to stick together 
among the hounds. 

The sport was popular at Stormbridge. A 
firm believer in the value of cross-country 
running, Coach Macbeth had discovered that 
he could get more work out of the men when 
the task was sugar-coated. Hare and hounds 
had been introduced as a means to this end. 
When the weather permitted Mack was almost 
certain to start the boys off one afternoon a 
week, excepting, perhaps, during the week of 
one of the big games. 

He rarely took part himself, trusting to their 
interest in the sport and the feeling of emula- 
tion and rivalry it engendered to make super- 
vision unnecessary. Also he was very glad 
to be able to cut baseball for a whole after- 
noon to familiarize himself with the progress 


276 


CLIF STIRLING 


made by crew and track. For he occasionally 
indulged in a little advisory coaching in those 
branches of athletics. 

Any student was permitted to take part in 
the hare and hounds, but, naturally, the swift 
pace discouraged the non-athletic from com- 
ing out. With the baseball and other squads, 
however, it was not compulsory. Those who 
chose could stay out of it, provided they put 
in an equal amount of time in the gym or 
on the field. But this was discouraged by 
Mack, and when a chase was announced the 
blackboard in the gym, giving the names of 
the participants, was usually swiftly filled 
with scrawling signatures. 

Out of this number the choosing of the hares 
had formerly been a cause of so much squab- 
bling and bickering that the coach latterly 
took it upon himself. It was his custom to 
chalk a big cross before three names on the 
blackboard, and the fellows thus selected 
were thereupon obliged irrevocably to serve 
as trail makers for that day. 

When Clif ran into the gym early Friday 
morning for a note-book he had left in his 
locker he discovered that Mack had already 
been there and chalked off Garry Wayne, 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 277 


along with Cuthbert and a junior named 
Warburton. He also observed, to his surprise, 
that Gene’s name had been erased. 

“Loring says I can’t go,” explained the 
latter a little later, in one of the class-rooms. 
“None of us can. Mack’s going to spend 
the afternoon coaching us up, I guess.” 

“Looks as if I was due for a solitary sprint,” 
laughed Clif. “What the deuce do you want 
to go and be a hare for, Garry?” 

“ So’s to see what a cinch it is to give you the 
slip,” grinned Wayne. “Bet you don’t even 
get a whiff of me, old sport.” 

“Bet you a soda I do,” retorted Clif. 
“Which way are you going?” 

Wayne grinned. “Don’t you wish you 
knew?” 

“I don’t guess you know a whole lot about 
it yourself, old foxy,” cut in Gene amusedly. 
“If Cuth’s in it, you can gamble he’ll do the 
leading all by his little self. That’s his 
specialty.” 

The talk ended with the calling to order of 
the class. 

The roll call presently made Clif aware that 
Les Fahnestock occupied a seat immediately 
behind him. He paid no attention to this, 


278 


CLIF STIRLING 


though it was the third time he had bumped 
into the fellow that morning. But, about two 
hours later, as he hurried up the steps of the 
chemical laboratory, intending to make up 
half an hour’s research work before lunch, he 
was somewhat annoyed to be halted by the 
sound of his enemy’s voice from inside the 
door. 

“I’ll tell you a dandy way to go, old man. 
You know the Mushroom? Well, there’s an 
old road, not much more than a track, that 
branches off the River Trail just beyond 
Goseck’s boathouse. It goes right over the 
top of the hill, makes a twist and comes out 
on the cross-road to Hartley. That would 
make a fine run.” 

“Huh!” grunted Clif. “I keep knocking 
into him every five minutes. Who’s with 
him now, I wonder?” 

“Too long,” came in Larry Cuthbert’s un- 
mistakable drawl. “And why go over a hill 
when you can stay on the level?” 

“To fool the bunch,” responded Fahne- 
stock eagerly. “You see, the way it heads at 
first, a person would think it runs right into 
the Turnpike. I did until I went over it a 
couple of Sundays ago. A lot of ’em will be 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 279 


sure to take the short cut around the lower 
side of the hill, not knowing of the sharp turn 
that brings it out in almost the opposite direc- 
tion. You’d throw practically the whole 
push off the scent, sure.” 

Cuthbert laughed. “How about you? 
Aren’t you going to be one of the hounds 
yourself?” 

“Nope. Little off my feed to-day, so I’m 
going to stay right here and take care of my- 
self for the game to-morrow. Better take 
my advice. You couldn’t find a nicer run 
that hasn’t been used once this season.” 

His voice sounded fainter and less distinct. 
The two were evidently moving down the 
hall toward the senior Lab. A moment later, 
however, Cuthbert’s pleasant laugh and a 
scrap of his comment floated back to Stir- 
ling’s ears: 

“For a fellow who’s not going to run, it 
seems to me you’re powerful anxious to 
have — ” 

“Strikes me so, too,” muttered Clif as he 
ran upstairs to the laboratory above. “Funny, 
but I could have sworn I saw his name on the 
board this morning. What’s he up to, I 
wonder? He’d hardly be putting up a game 


280 


CLIF STIRLING 


on Cuth, I should think. There wouldn’t be 
anything in that.” 

The question seemed to be of little impor- 
tance, and the whole matter passed quickly 
from Stirling’s mind and did not return until 
he stood with the crowd gathered in the gym 
that afternoon, waiting with some impatience 
for Macbeth’s signal to follow the hares. 
Then the sight of Fahnestock, standing in the 
background and not in running togs, brought 
it back again. 

“Not going, eh?” murmured Clif to him- 
self. “What the deuce made you so keen 
about the route Cuth was to take, then? I 
wonder if he will take it. Doesn’t seem likely. 
Cuth usually prefers to choose things for him- 
self.” 

At first, and for a good while after starting, 
it looked to Clif as if this were the case. 
There had been a shower during the night, 
making soft places here and there, but for the 
most part the going was admirable. The trail 
of paper led quickly out of town and off 
through the country lanes and byways in an 
almost opposite direction from the low, regu- 
larly curving hill known as the Mushroom. 
It was over an hour, in fact, before it began to 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 281 


circle slowly around, and, passing through 
fields, woods, back roads and more frequented 
highways, gradually approached the neigh- 
borhood of the flat-topped hill. 

Even then Stirling couldn’t be sure, for this 
part of the country wasn’t at all familiar. His 
tramps had usually led him to the south and 
west of Stormbridge, and, though he had been 
out this way once or twice along the river, his 
knowledge of the locality was limited. How- 
ever, when the trail brought them in sight of 
the rambling boat-house run by a strapping 
sullen looking Pole, then passed it and turned 
abruptly to the left into what looked like the 
most forsaken of untraveled tracks, the sopho- 
more chuckled softly to himself. 

“ Hanged if Cuth hasn’t done it!” he mur- 
mured. “He wouldn’t be any too pleased if 
he knew I heard all the planning.” 

A moment later he realized that this very 
fact bade fair to be more of a nuisance than 
anything else. Having overheard Cuth’s plan, 
even though the eavesdropping was uninten- 
tional, he was in honor bound to make no use 
of that knowledge. 

For a space it puzzled him to figure out just 
what was to be done under the conditions. 


282 


CLIF STIRLING 


There were four others in the group that had 
outstripped the majority of runners, and in- 
stinctively Clif waited to see what they would 
do. 

“ Where’s the old road go to?” panted one, 
pausing to wipe his forehead and stare disap- 
provingly at the stony climb. 

“ Search me,” was the reply he got. “ Never 
noticed it before. From the looks, though, I'd 
say it must cut over a shoulder of the hill and 
down into the Turnpike.” 

“ That's what I think,” put in another. 
“It's the shortest way home, and the fellows 
won't be wasting any time as late as this. I'll 
bet we can make it quicker around by the 
level. What do you say if we take a chance? ” 

The suggestion met with favor, and the four 
doubled back to the River Trail and made for 
some bars leading into a field that skirted the 
base of the hill. Clif ran a few steps with them 
and then stopped. 

“ Hanged if I will ! ” he muttered. “ Maybe 
I might have done it if I hadn't got wise. It's 
certainly fair enough to follow the trail.” 

Turning, he loped back up the hill. Trees 
swiftly intervened, hiding the four from sight. 
The others had not yet appeared from beyond 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 283 

the boat-house, and Stirling presently found 
himself alone on the rough and narrow track, 
along which were strewn at intervals scant 
driblets of torn newspaper. 

On either side the ground was rough and 
overgrown with a wilderness of brush and 
brambles and light second growth timber. 
Apparently it had never been cleared for 
crops, for there was no trace of fence or stone 
wall along the roadside. 

“Too blamed stony for anything to grow, I 
guess,” thought Stirling, moderating his speed 
a bit as the ascent grew steeper. “I wonder 
what the deuce they made the road for?” 
Presently he chuckled. “Just about here I’ll 
bet Cuth was ready to kick Fahnestock.” 

At length, reaching the crown, the road 
flattened out with an abruptness that was un- 
expected into a long, level stretch. Flanked 
on either side by thick undergrowth, it ran for 
almost a quarter of a mile so nearly straight 
that a person at one end could readily see 
what was taking place at the other. 

Not that there was anything interesting for 
Clif to see. The distance was as empty as all 
the rest of the road had been, and he stretched 
himself to cover it quickly and reach the end, 


284 


CLIF STIRLING 


where he hoped to find the abrupt turn of 
which Fahnestock had spoken. He was with- 
in fifty feet of it when he stopped suddenly, 
uttering an exclamation of surprise. 

The paper trail left the road at this point 
and turned abruptly into the undergrowth at 
his right. 

There could be no mistaking the fact. Not 
three yards back he had passed over a scat- 
tered bunch of paper squares in the middle 
of the road. Beside him, at the edge of the 
undergrowth, was another and larger mass. 
A few steps in among the bushes he could see 
still another pile of them. 

“Odd,” he said aloud. “I don’t see where 
that can lead to. I wonder if it’s a short cut 
or just done to fool us. I’ve half a mind to 
stick to the road.” 

Then he remembered that he had promised 
himself to keep to the trail, and in a moment 
he was plunging through the bushes. These 
grew thicker and more impenetrable as he 
advanced, but still the paper track led him 
on with unmistakable directness. Presently, 
however, he noticed a rather odd fact about 
the latter. Instead of being scattered care- 
lessly to the wind, as is usually the case, they 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 285 


lay on the ground in neat piles, as though the 
“hare” had carefully bent over and placed 
them there in small handfuls. 

“ I s’pose he was afraid they'd be lost in this 
jungle,” thought Clif, pushing forward, his 
head down and his arm lifted to guard his face 
from the thorny branches. “ Hang the briars ! 
I never saw such a mess. Cuth must be 
crazy to — ” 

The words ended in a sharp gasp. One con- 
fidently advancing foot had suddenly found 
nothing beneath to uphold it. It was like 
walking off into space. Clif made a terrific 
muscular effort to recover his lost balance. 
Wildly he clutched at briars and frail branches 
that broke under the strain. A cry was 
wrenched from his lips. He caught a flashing 
vision of open spaces and of rocks, gray, black 
and frowning. Then came a soul-sickening 
drop that ended in a crash, a stabbing pain, 
blackness and silence. 


CHAPTER XXXI 


PRISONER IN THE OLD QUARRY 

For some time Clif lay placidly staring up 
at a strip of blue-gray sky that was tinged 
with streaks of rose color and gold and set in a 
jagged black outline. He found, the effect 
rather interesting, though he was somewhat 
at a loss to explain his novel point of view or to 
identify the dark setting for that bit of opal- 
escent coloring. Presently his brain began 
to work again and he realized that he was lying 
on his back at the bottom of a rocky abyss, 
looking up at the sky tinged with the red glow 
of sunset. 

Then he remembered. With a sharp, gasp- 
ing intake, he sat up hurriedly and began to 
inspect himself for broken bones. Beyond 
some bruises, he appeared to be all right, 
though the muscles of his right shoulder were 
badly strained and there was a lump the size 
of a hen’s egg on the back of his head, and one 
ankle pained him badly. 

286 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 287 


In some pain, he managed to get on his 
feet and look upward. His gaze traveled over 
some forty odd feet of sheer rocky surface to 
where the torn, uprooted bushes indicated the 
point of his struggles on the edge of the abyss. 

“My!” he muttered, taking a deep breath. 
“I don't see why I wasn't smashed up worse.” 

Later he discovered that what had un- 
doubtedly eased his fall and shorn it of really 
serious consequences was a slight outward in- 
cline of the rock, making his descent more like 
a long, steep slide than an actual drop. Just 
now his gaze was traveling curiously along the 
length of frowning wall. 

“An old quarry, that's what it is!” he went 
on aloud. “That explains the road over the 
hill, I s'pose. But what the dickens was that 
paper scattered — ” 

He paused, his eyes suddenly dilating. He 
had turned to look across at the other wall of 
rock and made the discovery that what he 
had casually taken for the bottom of the 
quarry was not rock at all, but water! Dark, 
motionless, with a sinister stillness that hinted 
of unknown depths, it quite filled the main 
portion of the pit, coming to within a dozen 
feet of where Clif stood. He turned cold at 


288 


CLIF STIRLING 


the thought of what might have happened had 
he rolled or fallen a little further from the wall. 

He was still staring at the water in fascina- 
tion, when suddenly the explosions of a motor 
car sounded with unexpected distinctness ap- 
parently from just beyond the further side 
of the quarry. 

Cupping his hands to his mouth, he let out a 
stentorian shout that made the place ring. 
It seemed as if the unknown motorist must 
hear, but if he did he gave no sign. The sharp 
explosions emerged into a regular purring, as 
if the engine were settling down to business, 
and in a few minutes the last murmur of it 
died away in the distance. 

“ Chump !” grumbled Clif. “He must 
have heard.” 

Dusk was falling. Already the lower part 
of the quarry was full of shadows that grew 
and spread with surprising swiftness. Before 
long it would be dark, and his chance to find 
a way out until daylight came again would be 
small. The thought of groping about the 
unknown place with that still, treacherous 
water, waiting for him to trip or stumble into 
it, sent shivers flickering along his spine. He 
became feverishly anxious to make the most 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 289 


of the flitting daylight. Keeping close to 
the rocky wall, he hurried forward, his eyes 
eagerly searching the sheer surfaces. 

All he could see in the fast failing light was 
not particularly encouraging. The point at 
which he had fallen into the pit was about as 
sloping as anything he encountered elsewhere. 
In fact, at many places the upper part of the 
wall actually overhung the lower, and while 
here and there tufts of grass or other vegeta- 
tion had found scanty root in small crevices or 
on narrow ledges, nowhere did it seem pos- 
sible for a person to climb out of the place 
unaided. 

The quarry was long and narrow, and Clif 
had made little more than half the circuit when 
darkness shut down entirely. Still he per- 
sisted, feeling his way slowly along until a 
dislodged pebble made a splash that seemed to 
come from under his very feet. That halted 
him. 

“ Jove!” he exclaimed with a nervous laugh. 
“That was close! Another step or two, and 
Fd have walked into it.” 

Dropping down on his hands and knees, he 
felt about and discovered that the water came 
up to the very wall, barring further progress 

19 


290 


CLIF STIRLING 


in this direction. Cautiously returning to 
a spot where the solid surface was wider, he 
sat down with his back against the rock to 
consider the situation. 

Fortunately the night was not at all cold, 
but that seemed the only blessing vouchsafed 
him. His head ached and throbbed where he 
had hit it on the rock. The pain in his shoul- 
der increased, and he could hardly stir without 
being conscious of a new bruise somewhere on 
his person. Also there was a hollow feeling 
under his belt buckle that grew more and 
more persistent as the time passed, serving as 
a constant reminder of the delicious supper 
even then in process of preparation for the 
training table. 

Nevertheless, when the best had to be made 
of a situation Clif could generally be counted 
on to take his medicine without grumbling. 
He was evidently doomed to spend the night 
in this forsaken spot. So he pulled in his belt, 
found a place where some scanty vegetation 
tempered the hardness of the rock and settled 
down to make himself as comfortable as might 
be. 

There did not spem to be any possibility of 
sleep coming to relieve the monotony of the 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 291 


long hours of waiting. His mind was intensely 
active, leaping from one subject to another. 
He wondered how soon he would be missed 
and what the fellows would do when they 
found he had not returned. He did not count 
on anyone but Gene and Garry taking a great 
deal of interest in his absence, but there was a 
chance that they might search for him. 

He thought of the disagreement in the frat, 
and was sorry it had ever started. He blamed 
Fahnestock for it, as he had blamed the fellow 
for a number of other unpleasant things; and if 
fervent desire on Clif s part could have sent 
his unscrupulous classmate far distant from 
Stormbridge the fellow would have forthwith 
vanished into the limbo of oblivion. He 
thought of a good many other matters, but 
mainly his mind lingered on the puzzle of that 
treacherous trail of paper that had brought 
him where he was. 

Try as he might, he could not understand 
it. The track had led him straight to the edge 
of the abyss, and then stopped. There was 
no getting around that. He remembered 
treading on a little pile of paper squares 
scarcely a step before the one that sent him 
whirling down the rocky precipice. If the 


292 


CLIF STIRLING 


person who laid it had planned to land him 
here, he could not have done it better. What 
earthly object could Cuthbert have in perpe- 
trating such a trick, or Warburton, whom he 
scarcely knew? 

This speculating led Clif to realize that it 
was quite impossible for either of these men, 
even had they so desired, to single him out as 
the butt of their questionable joke without 
drawing all the other hounds into the same 
trap. No one could have guessed that he 
alone would follow the trail, and that all the 
others would take that short cut around the 
foot of the hill to the Turnpike. 

“The fellows who came after me must have 
gone around, too,” he muttered aloud, “or 
else there’d be somebody else here to keep me 
company. They couldn’t have gone through 
those bushes, as I did, and come straight up 
to the edge without falling in. Still, it seems 
remarkable that no one else out of the whole 
crowd came over the hill.” 


CHAPTER XXXII 


TELLTALE SCRAPS OF PAPER 

The more he considered, the more incom- 
prehensible it seemed. He was still puzzling 
over it when he dropped off to sleep. When 
he opened his eyes to gray dawn the vague 
remnants of a fantastic dream, in which cliffs 
and paper trails and various other things were 
wierdly mixed, still lingered in his brain. 

Seeing that morning had come, he started 
to spring to his feet. He got up slowly, 
groaning a little; for he was so stiff and sore 
that his effort reminded him of a rheumaticky 
man of eighty getting out of a chair. 

On his feet, he hobbled back to where he 
had been stopped the night before, and saw 
at a glance that the way was impassable. 
There was nothing, therefore, but a return to 
the other side of the quarry. This he pro- 
ceeded to do. Some distance beyond the spot 
where he had fallen in he could see that the 
rocks seemed rougher and more broken. In 
his eagerness to reach that place, he would 

293 


294 


CLIF STIRLING 


have passed on without pausing had not his 
glance rested on several small squares of news- 
paper lying near the edge of the water. 

“Must have fallen down when I did,” he 
murmured. “ I know that pile was right there 
on the edge of the drop.” 

Moved by some unfathomed impulse, he 
bent and scooped them up, glanced at them 
absently and thrust them into his pocket. 
He was anxious to get on. The rough place 
ahead looked more and more promising, and 
when he came up to it he decided that it was 
well worth trying. Fifteen minutes later, 
flushed and perspiring, he drew himself over 
the edge of the rocks, crawled a few feet 
through the undergrowth and stood up, mop- 
ping his face. 

“Now why the mischief couldn’t I have 
turned this way last night?” he murmured 
whimsically. I’d be home in bed, sleeping the 
sleep of innocence, instead of starving to death 
in this wilderness. I sure am hungry ! ” 

Glancing at his watch, which had miracu- 
lously survived the tumble, Clif found it 
wasn’t quite six o’clock. Without delay he 
pushed on through the bushes, presently com- 
ing out on the road somewhat below the spot 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 295 

where he had left it a little over twelve hours 
before. He had scarcely taken a dozen 
strides when there came a crashing in the 
undergrowth on the other side, the bushes 
were thrust aside, and Jack Stirling, tired, 
disheveled, almost haggard-looking, stepped 
into the road. 

“Clif!” he cried in a tone that made the 
older brother tingle. His face lit up joyfully, 
and with a rush he grabbed Clif about the 
shoulders in a boyish bear-hug. “If I’m not 
glad to see your homely phiz again! Where 
have you been? What happened to you, any- 
how?” 

There was no trace of the stiff and distant 
manner that had enveloped him so long. He 
was the old Jacko, impulsive, affectionate, 
with a touch of boisterousness to hide his 
feelings. 

Clif returned the boy’s grip, grinning hap- 
pily. It was worth more than a night in an 
abandoned quarry to bring things back to 
their old footing between them. He was 
about to answer joshingly when Garry Wayne, 
scratched, dirty, disreputable, swinging an 
unlighted lantern from one hand, pushed 
through the bushes. The instant he saw 


296 


CLIF STIRLING 


Stirling he set the lantern on the ground and 
dropped beside it with an exaggerated gasp of 
weariness. 

“Look who's here!" he moaned. “Per- 
fectly whole and uninjured, too ! Not drowned 
or shot up by bandits or kidnapped or any- 
thing. It's been a night of anguish wasted. 
Why, he hasn't even brought back a limp!" 

“Huh!" grunted Clif, with a mixture of 
banter and earnestness. “No thanks to you 
fellows if I haven't. Nice trick that, laying 
the trail to the edge of an old quarry that's 
about two hundred feet deep — more or less. 
It's a wonder I'm not a battered corpse." 

A puzzled look came into Wayne's face. 
“ Quarry? " he echoed blankly. “Trail? You 
don't happen to be in earnest, by any chance?" 

“Don't I? Shows what a poor guesser you 
are. I reckon you'd be in earnest if you'd 
gone head first down about a mile of rocks and 
bumped yourself to sleep at the bottom. If 
you'd had to stay there all night without a 
thing to eat and — " 

‘ ‘ Enough ! ' ' interrupted W ayne hastily. 
“Something's tangled in your cogs, all right. 
I don't know of any quarry, excepting the ones 
over this side of Hartley. If you’re talking 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 297 

about a paper trail we made, that goes straight 
along this road as plain as a pipestem.” 

“ Except where you carried it through the 
bushes just beyond here,” corrected Clif. 
“You haven’t forgotten that, have you?” 

“Forgotten nothing! It doesn’t leave the 
road.” 

“Doesn’t, eh?” Stirling was beginning to 
grow a trifle indignant at this repeated contra- 
diction. “Get up out of there and I’ll show 
you.” 

Without waiting for Wayne to rise, he 
turned and walked swiftly down the road, 
Jack at his side. The spot where he had 
turned in was pretty accurately impressed in 
his mind. There had been a noticeably thick 
clump of gray birches, flanked by a fair-sized 
hemlock, not more than a dozen feet this side 
of where he had left the road. He reached 
the clump and passed it. A moment later 
he stopped and peered into the undergrowth 
for a sight of the paper trail. He failed to 
find it. 

“Scattered by the wind, I suppose,” he said. 
“Further in, though, it’ll be thick enough. An 
eighty-knot gale couldn’t blow it clean out of 
this brush.” 


298 


CLIF STIRLING 


Further in the ground was as blank of paper 
scraps as it had been by the roadside. Fol- 
lowed by the two boys, Clif pushed on through 
the undergrowth, his lips compressed, his 
face slightly flushed. He knew he was right, 
and he meant to prove it if he had to go to the 
edge of the quarry itself. 

But the pucker in his forehead deepened and 
the puzzled look in his eyes increased as each 
step forward failed to bring him what he 
sought. He had made no mistake in locality. 
The bushes had plainly been lately dis- 
turbed, showing where he had forced his way 
through them barely twelve hours before. 
Yet neither on ground nor bush, half-hidden in 
the grass or by last year’s autumn leaves, could 
he find a trace of those torn bits of newspaper 
that had lain here so plainly and so plentifully 
only the afternoon before. Straight to the 
edge of the precipice he went; straight to the 
very spot where torn branches and uprooted 
bushes told eloquently of his frantic efforts 
to escape that fall. 

“It's gone!” he said a little dazedly, return- 
ing to the two who had followed close behind. 
“And this is the place where I went over.” 

They moved closer, craning their necks 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 299 


gingerly and pouring forth a volley of eager 
questions. But Clif did not answer. He had 
bethought himself of something, and, thrust- 
ing one hand quickly into a pocket, he drew 
forth the bits of newspaper he had picked up 
in the quarry below. These, at least, were 
tangible; they showed that he was not losing 
his mind or becoming the prey of some strange 
delusion. There were only seven or eight of 
them, roughly squared shapes. As he ab- 
sently shifted them in his palm two of them 
seemed to fit together. “ Courier Gazette , 
Crown Point, Ind .,” stared up at him in small 
type, as from an editorial page. 

The realization of what those words meant 
flashed into Clif s brain with a tingling sense 
of shock. Crown Point, Indiana, was the 
home town of Lester Fahnestock! 


CHAPTER XXXIII 


CLIF MAKES A VOW 

Crown Point, a middle-western town of 
two thousand inhabitants! Clif remembered 
looking it up at the time he discovered that the 
freshman, Russell Harding, registered from 
the same place. It was difficult to believe 
that anyone at Stormbridge save these two 
fellows was at all likely to possess a copy of so 
provincial and local a paper. 

Of course an old copy might have gotten 
into the hands of whoever prepared the bags 
of paper for the hares, but these scraps hadn’t 
come from an old copy. The date on one of 
them stamped it as just four days old. It 
could scarcely have reached Stormbridge ear- 
lier than yesterday morning. 

Though significant, all this really proved 
nothing. Nevertheless, it roused Stirling’s 
suspicions and set his brain working on a 
possibility that^hadn’t occurred to him be- 
fore. 


300 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 301 


Thrusting the scraps back into his pocket, 
he made haste to answer the questions of his 
companions, who were beginning to grow in- 
sistent. Patiently and good-naturedly he told 
them everything down to the last detail of 
how he felt when he came to his senses at the 
bottom of the quarry. With quite as much 
eagerness as they, he examined the surface of 
the declivity and noted that from where he 
stood the slope was even more apparent than 
from below. It had really been more of a 
slide than a drop, though at the time it had 
certainly felt enough like the latter to be 
beastly scary. In the ordinary course of 
events such a fall could scarcely have resulted 
fatally. 

Throughout the talk and questioning and 
interested inspection, a part of his brain con- 
tinued to puzzle over the problem as to 
whether or not, for his benefit alone, the trail 
had been deliberately laid from the road over 
to the clif. He was also likewise beginning 
to suspect that every scrap of paper had also 
been carefully gathered up soon after he fell 
into the quarry. Certainly these scraps had 
completely vanished beyond the possibility of 
being blown away. He remembered, too, 


302 


CLIF STIRLING 


the neat, close piles of paper that had struck 
him as odd and unusual. How much easier 
they must have been to gather up than the 
ordinary scattered handfuls! 

“It wouldn't have taken ten minutes,” 
thought the boy. “ As soon as the first two or 
three heaps near the road were out of the way, 
anybody following me would have no reason 
for leaving the road. He would have kept 
straight along till he picked up the real trail 
further on." 

Which theory would explain, of course, why 
no one had followed him into the trap. It 
also presupposed the presence of someone in 
hiding who had turned the trick successfully. 

When Clif and his two companions returned 
to the road the former took pains to glance 
casually into the thicket of birch and hemlock 
so close at hand. What he saw brought a grim, 
hard look into his face. 

On the ground were unmistakable signs that 
someone had been recently standing there for 
a considerable time. There wasn't enough 
moisture in the earth for actual footprints, 
but the whole surface had been worn smooth, 
as if a person in rubber-soled shoes had 
tramped nervously back and forth the length 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 303 

of the cover. Also several branches had been 
broken from one place in the bushes, leaving a 
shielded opening, through which the one un- 
der cover could get a clear view of that long, 
straight stretch of stony road. 

Why shouldn’t the unknown have been in 
hiding when the hares passed? Either be- 
fore or immediately afterward he could have 
made the false trail from the quarry almost to 
the roadside, leaving only a small gap to be 
filled in, at the same time taking care that 
none of the real trail was left in sight in the 
roadway beyond. Toward the end of the 
chase the hounds were likely to be well spread 
out, and from his peep-hole the scoundrel 
could recognize them almost as soon as they 
appeared at the end of the long, straight 
stretch of road. This gave him ample time, 
when the fellow for whom it had all been 
planned showed up, to slip out, fill in the 
short gap with three or four bunches of paper 
and retire again, thus making the false track 
so plain that the man was almost certain to 
be diverted from the road. And after the 
victim had passed, the work of a minute or 
two to remove the lately added paper would 
prevent others from following. 


304 


CLIF STIRLING 


If this were the true explanation, it indi- 
cated a schemer of unusual cleverness and a 
nature hard, ruthless and utterly unscrupu- 
lous. How could the perpetrator know his 
victim would not break an arm or leg, even 
his neck? Perhaps that was what was wanted, 
thought Clif, a glowing flame of anger in his 
eyes. Outwardly he remained cool, for this 
explanation was only guesswork. No matter 
what he might personally believe, as yet he had 
no real proof of the unknown’s identity. 

As Clif pondered, Wayne grew impatient of 
even the brief delay. 

“What do you want to hang around here 
for, old man? ” he asked. “ Let’s get on down 
the hill and notify the others. Marsden and 
a couple of other chaps said the last they saw 
of you yesterday was when they started around 
the base of the hill toward the Turnpike and 
you came after them. So nobody thought of 
looking for you up here. Jack and I just 
tried it on a chance. Oh, say, what about 
that paper trail you said led to the quarry? 
I don’t get what you meant.” 

“It wasn’t there.” Clif hesitated a min- 
ute, and then went on rather slowly: “It’s 
something I can’t explain this minute, fel- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 305 


lows. When I get the thing straightened 
out in my mind I'll tell you about it. Until 
then couldn’t you forget I said anything 
about it?” 

“Sure,” agreed Wayne. “Only how will 
you account to the others for shoving through 
an eighth of a mile of brambles and then 
shooting the shutes into that blooming hole 
in the ground?” 

Stirling smiled. “I s’pose I could have 
been taking a short cut, couldn’t I?” 

“You could,” reponded Wayne, “but it 
doesn’t sound like the sort of stunt you’d be 
likely to perpetrate. Still, we all have our 
days when there’s nobody home.” He grinned 
and tapped his head significantly. “I dare 
say it will pass.” 

Being the only explanation vouchsafed, it 
had to pass. But Clif’s stock promptly 
dropped. Stirred up by Garry Wayne as 
soon as he had made sure of Clif’s absence, 
practically the entire Theta Gamma frater- 
nity had taken up the search. They had been 
out all night, and were tired and hungry and 
discouraged. Some of them, as the hours 
passed without disclosing any sign of the 
missing man, had grown desperately appre- 
20 


306 


CLIF STIRLING 


hensive and troubled. To have Stirling ap- 
pear, relatively fresh after his sleep, with 
nothing serious the matter with him, and no 
better excuse for his mishap than the footless 
one of trying for a short cut, effectually 
curdled sympathy. 

Cross and irritated, the crowd didn’t even 
give Clif a chance to express his gratitude for 
a service and solicitude that had really touched 
him deeply. With sundry sarcastic com- 
ments, they started back to town in a body, 
growling and grumbling for the entire dis- 
tance. Reaching the campus, they hurriedly 
sought their beds to snatch a little sleep in the 
scant time remaining. Most of them cut 
chapel, and not a few did not appear till noon. 
Even then they were slightly peevish. 

With Gene and Garry and Jack Stirling, all 
of whom remained cheerful in spite of the pre- 
dominating gloom, Clif was the last to reach 
the college purlieus. In spite of his denials, 
the ankle was paining him badly, and he 
found increasing discomfort in walking. The 
strained shoulder hurt even more, but he 
could keep that fact to himself. And so, 
though the three fellows soon noticed his 
slight limp and insisted on taking turns help- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 307 


ing him, none of them had any idea of this 
other trouble, nor of the fear growing in Stir- 
ling’s mind that it might be bad enough to 
keep him out of the game against Dartmore. 

Clif retained a smiling composure until he 
had sent Wayne and Jack off to bed. Having 
slowly climbed the stairs of Hackett with 
Gene, some of his worry came out, for he 
wanted Gene to rub him. When this failed 
to produce any notable improvement, his 
roommate suggested fetching Macbeth, who 
lived nearby. Stirling acquiesced reluctantly. 

The coach came, full of anxiety over what 
he had heard. His examination was thorough 
and prolonged. Clif strove to refrain from 
wincing during the probing and pushing, and 
succeeded pretty well. But the older man 
was too experienced to be deceived. Stirling 
read his verdict in his eyes before it was given 
speech. 

“A nice mess!” finally exploded Mack. 
“If I’d had the least idea you’d do anything 
like this I’d never have let you go out. Here 
I’ve been planning to put you in^against Dart- 
more next week, and now — ” 

He clipped off his words with a snapping of 
his jaws, and stood glaring at Stirling. Pres- 


308 


CLIF STIRLING 


ently his expression relaxed a little at the sight 
of the latter's palpable distress. 

“But there's nothing broken, is there?" 
pleaded Clif. “Or even really sprained? If 
I took awful good care of it and had it treated 
two or three times a day, don't you think — " 

“Not in a week's time," cut in the coach 
decisively. “And there's your ankle, be- 
sides. I wouldn't dare start you off in the 
box. You may be all right in time for 
Lafitte, but next week I reckon it'll have to be 
Fahnestock." 

At the mention of the name a wave of 
resentment surged through Stirling. This 
was what Fahnestock had been working for, 
and he had won out. 

“But I’ll square up with him," vowed Clif 
when Mack had departed for some special 
lotions and remedies. “He's put this trick 
over on me, but he won't get away with it. 
I'm going to get him good and proper!" 


CHAPTER XXXIV 


ON THE EVE OF THE GAME 

Though somewhat easy going and slow 
to rouse, when once stirred up Clif could not 
easily be diverted from any purpose. He had 
passed over the various former plottings of 
Lester Fahnestock either through lack of proof 
or because the schemes had failed and it 
seemed futile to trouble himself over them. 
This last performance, however, was just a bit 
too raw. Also it had succeeded. 

Probably this latter fact, with the accom- 
panying humiliation, chagrin and bitter dis- 
appointment, was what kept Clif in a state of 
cold, determined anger. He told himself that 
Fahnestock might pitch in the Dartmore game, 
but that it would be the last time he would 
ever pitch for Stormbridge. Though he had 
scarcely a scrap of proof that would enable 
him to fix the responsibility of the quarry out- 
rage upon his rival, he set promptly and dog- 
gedly to work to dig it up. 

309 


310 


CLIF STIRLING 


Of the matters to be investigated, one was 
the source of the newspaper used by Cuthbert 
and his associates in making the genuine 
trails. Clif quickly learned that Garry him- 
self had supplied the entire lot from old papers 
gathered up at the frat house. This elimi- 
nated the Crown Point Courier Gazette . Stir- 
ling also learned that Fahnestock received a 
copy of that journal regularly by mail, and, 
through Jack, that Russell Harding did not. 
Thus he established to his own satisfaction 
the source of those incriminating scraps he 
had carefully preserved. 

The few details that could be learned of 
Fahnestock’s movements on the afternoon of 
the paper chase provided evidence of a vaguely 
circumstantial nature. The fellow had been 
observed in the gym thirty or forty minutes 
after the hounds had departed, and he had 
appeared at training table for supper, where 
he made the casual announcement that he 
had been snoozing in his room to try to get 
rid of a headache. Clif was almost certain 
this was a lie. This was the first time he had 
ever heard of Fahnestock’s having a headache. 
But the man roomed alone, and Stirling could 
find no one about the college who remembered 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 311 


setting eyes on him in the two hours or more 
that he was supposed to have spent in his 
room. 

In that time Fahnestock could have gone 
out to the Mushroom and back in an auto- 
mobile, and done his treacherous work. Clif 
figured it out that way in his mind. Re- 
membering the mysterious machine he had 
heard starting up, he was convinced that this 
must have been Fahnestock just getting away. 

Clif had taken Jack into his confidence, as 
much to promote and foster the pleasantly 
renewed intimacy between them and wean the 
boy from Russ Harding’s crowd as for any 
other reason. On Sunday afternoon they 
hired a rig for the purpose of investigating the 
motor car business. It took them four hours, 
but in the end they were more successful than 
Clif had dared to hope. 

After driving over what seemed to be every 
foot of road in the neighborhood of the Mush- 
room, at last they found a little blind, over- 
grown track that led in close to the opposite 
side of the old quarry. And there, in a shel- 
tered spot, they came upon the tracks of an 
automobile that had been driven in, backed 
around and stopped. The ground had been 


312 


CLIF STIRLING 


soft enough to preserve the marks. The rear 
tires were both non-skid; the front ones 
smooth. The left-hand rear tire had left the 
print of a long irregular gouge where the rub- 
ber had apparently been sliced by a piece of 
glass. 

The search seemed to have narrowed down 
to locating this particular machine and learn- 
ing who had had it on that particular after- 
noon. If it turned out that the person was 
Fahnestock, Clif felt his case would be 
proved. The car must be found. 

From Monday morning to Friday after- 
noon the search was kept up without success. 
It seemed that almost every automobile in 
town had been inspected, but the rear tires of 
none of them were right. Wayne had grown 
discouraged, and Harmon’s enthusiasm was 
ebbing fast; but Clif did not waver. On the 
morning of the great game he arose as doggedly 
determined as ever. 

Over another matter, however, he was se- 
cretly downcast. In spite of Macbeth’s posi- 
tive assurance that he would not be allowed 
to pitch in the Dartmore game, Clif had never 
really entirely lost hope until the night before. 
Always he had been buoyed up by the possi- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 313 

bility that he might be in shape when the 
time came. He had the wrenched shoulder 
rubbed and massaged and lotioned at fre- 
quent intervals, and kept the lame ankle care- 
fully bandaged and treated with arnica and 
witch hazel until their rooms smelled like a 
hospital clinic. 

All to no purpose. Mack had looked him 
over again and shaken his head dubiously. 

“I’m afraid to risk it, Clif. You’re a lot 
better, of course, but that shoulder is still 
sore, and it would be giving you fits before 
you’d pitched an inning. Neither of us can 
tell what the ankle would do. It’ll have to be 
Fannie, I’m afraid. He’s fit as a fiddle.” 
The coach paused thoughtfully. “I only 
wish I knew whether he has real sand ” he 
muttered half to himself. 

Clif thought of Macbeth’s remark while 
taking his shower that morning; thought of it 
again in the gym after lunch. His hatred and 
contempt of Fahnestock had been rather lost 
in worry for the team as a whole and fear that 
it might not be victorious in the coming strug- 
gle. Dartmore had not lost a game this 
season, and the rumors of her strength were 
distinctly disquieting. Suppose Fahnestock 


314 


CLIF STIRLING 


should lose his nerve when facing that hard- 
hitting aggregation, and go to pieces? 

“He can’t!” muttered Stirling, aghast at the 
thought. “He may be a crook, but he must 
have nerve.” 

Nevertheless, though he had no orders from 
coach or captain, Clif dressed slowly and with 
unusual care that afternoon. The shoulder 
was heaVily anointed and rubbed, the ankle 
tightly strapped. Then the sophomore gath- 
ered up a ball and the accommodating Garry 
Wayne, and trotted down to the grounds to 
toss a few in the quiet of the back field. He 
could not forget that if Fahnestock took the 
ascension route there was no one but two green 
youngsters, a distinctly erratic junior and 
himself to fall back on. 

He found he could put them over bet- 
ter than he had expected. Much comforted 
by the discovery, he continued at the work 
until it was almost time for the game to be 
called. Then he resumed his sweater and 
strolled over toward the bench. 

Away over back of left and center field an 
enclosure for carriages and automobiles had 
been roped off and was already filled. Clif 
caught sight of Dig Lowell in a smart auto, 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 315 


with several extremely pretty girls and a 
chaperone, and he altered his course to pass 
close by them. 

Some distance before reaching LowelPs car 
Clif stopped and stared, wide-eyed, at an old- 
fashioned runabout that was somewhat bat- 
tered as to paint, and was occupied by two 
pleasant looking, rather countrified young 
fellows. 

The non-skid tires on the rear wheels were 
the style he had been searching for. On the 
near rear tire was a long, irregular gouge, the 
sight of which brought an eager sparkle into 
Stirling’s eyes. 


CHAPTER XXXV 


THE TEST OF NERVE 

The game had already been called when Clif 
reached the bench. His expression was tri- 
umphant and just a little wondering. 

“The nerve of him!” he muttered under his 
breath. “Picking up a perfectly strange man 
in the street and hiring him to drive him over 
to the quarry! I s’pose when he found the 
fellow came from away over beyond Hartley 
he thought he was safe. Never guessed he’d 
turn out to be a fan and show up at this game. 
Well, I’ve got him at last. Mr. Lester 
Fahnestock can kiss himself good-bye, I 
reckon.” 

His lips straightened into a determined 
line; then he glanced up sharply at the 
umpire’s bawling command, “Take your 
base!” 

“Great Scott!” he breathed, his expression 
suddenly anxious. “He can’t be — already!” 

Then he saw that the pitcher’s gaze was 

316 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 317 


fixed on him with queer searching intentness, 
and a flash of illumination came to him. 

“He knows!” said Clif under his breath. 
“He saw me talking to that man. What if 
that should start him going?” 

Though he detested Fahnestock, there was 
nothing Clif wanted less than to see the man 
go to pieces at the present moment. The 
fellow must keep up and pull the team through ; 
there was no one else who could. 

After that first unsteadiness, Fahnestock 
showed no immediate signs of wavering. 
Seeming to pull himself together, for several 
innings he pitched a clever, brainy brand of 
baseball that kept the crowd applauding 
delightedly. Although they were reputed to 
be “fence breakers,” the man on the mound 
held the visitors well in check. 

In the first flush of relief and satisfaction to 
find that his fears seemed unwarranted, Stir- 
ling joined in the applause. Nevertheless, 
there was a curious quality of unrest mingling 
with his satisfaction. Mentally he was like a 
person perched uncertainly on the edge of his 
chair; he couldn’t relax and lean back com- 
fortably. He seemed to be waiting for some- 
thing to happen. 


318 


CLIF STIRLING 


Finally Clif realized that, in spite of his 
cleverness and ability, the pitcher was not 
inspiring confidence. There was an intangible 
something in his method of handling the op- 
posing batters that gave Stirling the feeling 
that he was afraid of them. This brought to 
Clif’s mind Macbeth’s murmured query of the 
night before, “I only wish I knew whether he 
has real sand.” 

“I wonder if he has?” pondered the anxious 
boy on the bench. “If not, they’ll be likely 
to get to him sooner or later.” 

It was the first time Fahnestock had been 
pitted against a team of real hitters. In the 
other games the opposing clubs had all been 
so much inferior to Stormbridge that the 
pitcher took them in hand with a dash and 
flourish and the air of one who could polish 
them off with one hand tied behind him. 

Now, however, caution was the watchword 
instead of dash — caution and craft and clever- 
ness. There was one big fellow — a fielder 
named Rodin — who was fourth on the batting 
order, with whom Fahnestock seemed especi- 
ally to avoid joining issue. Twice Lester 
passed him with evident intention. The first 
time there was some show of reason for it; but 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 319 


on the following occasion the fellow was the 
first man up. When Fahnestock gave him his 
base Stirling’s lips curled. 

“He’s scared,” he murmured. 

There were other signs of the pitcher’s 
nervousness that came out stronger as the 
game progressed. By the beginning of the 
seventh, though he had managed to hold down 
the opposition to three runs, there were tokens 
which denoted that he might “crack.” 

Stormbridge had tied the score in the fifth. 
There had been no further scoring by either 
side since, and every minute seemed to add to 
the tenseness of the situation. Stirling had 
a feeling that a smash was coming. Glancing 
at the coach, who stood nearby, he saw at 
once that Mack was laboring under much the 
same sort of suspense. He was frowning, and 
his eyes, keen, bright and full of a troubled 
speculation, scarcely left the pitcher’s face. 

The leading man in the seventh reached 
first on an infielder’s error. Fahnestock, 
usually calm under such annoyances, whirled 
on his unfortunate supporter and berated him 
fiercely. The reply was equally savage, and 
Cuthbert was compelled to interfere to stop 
the wrangling. 


320 


CLIF STIRLING 


Distinctly upset by this unpleasantness, the 
pitcher turned back to the mound and found 
himself facing Rodin, who was grinning and 
gently swinging his long bat. Trying to give 
the man a wide one, Fahnestock lost control 
for a second. Rodin landed on the ball with 
violence and lined it into the field midway 
between center and right. 

The groaning crowd realized that the drive 
was good for two sacks. Rodin was held at 
second by a coacher, but the man ahead of 
him crossed the pan, putting the visitors 
ahead again. 

Stirling sat down abruptly. “The ascen- 
sion’s begun!” he muttered. “Now what’ll 
Mack do?” 

For the time being the coach did nothing, 
but he was still watching Fahnestock intently. 
His eyes had narrowed a trifle more and the 
skin had hardened a bit over his jaw bones. 
Otherwise he appeared undisturbed. 

As the turmoil died down the next man took 
his place at the pan. Tenny made a sign and 
held his hands close behind the batter’s 
shoulder, indicating that he wanted the ball 
close. 

Of course Fahnestock tried to deliver what 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 321 


was called for, but the ball came sailing over 
the heart of the pan. The batter met it on 
the seam. And when the play was over 
another man was on second and Rodin had 
scored. 

“He’s all in, fellows — all in!” shouted a 
Dartmore coacher, swift to see the change that 
had come over the opposing twirler. “Send 
him to the stable! Put the blanket on him!” 

Fahnestock toed the plate, moistening his 
lips furtively. Turning a questioning glance 
on Macbeth, Clif met the coach’s thoughtful 
gaze. A moment later Mack was beside him. 

“Will you try to hold ’em till I get Davis 
warmed up a bit?” he asked. “You always 
could go in cold and — ” 

Stirling sprang to his feet and began strip- 
ping off his sweater. “ Let me try it, Mack! ” 

The sharp sound of leather meeting wood 
made him whirl to see another drive flashing 
into the outfield. It was a single, but the 
man on second, having taken, a good lead, 
added another tally to the rapidly mounting 
lead of the enemy. 

The coach held things up while he consulted 
with the captain. At a signal, Fahnestock 
dropped the ball and walked toward the bench. 

21 


322 


CLIF STIRLING 


He did his best to seem indifferent, and par- 
tially succeeded. 

In passing, Clif glanced at his scheming foe, 
noting the tight gray lips and the expression in 
the man’s dark eyes. To his momentary 
wonderment, Stirling was touched by pity and 
regret for the fellow. Having reached the 
mound and faced the waiting batter, he forgot 
everything save the business in hand. 

No one was out, and the visitors were al- 
ready three tallies in the lead. Stormbridge 
was discouraged and the enemy correspond- 
ingly elated by Fahnestock’s disastrous slump. 
To nearly everyone it seemed that Macbeth 
had used bad judgment in sending Clif out at 
all. “ Another lamb for the slaughter,” was 
the way some expressed it. 


CHAPTER XXXVI 


AN END — AND A BEGINNING 

Clif Stirling had one quality which would 
have been a big asset to any pitcher — a keen 
sense of observation. Partly through intu- 
ition and partly from deliberate intent, he had 
already sized up the opposing batters, noting 
their strength and weakness, their preferences 
and dislikes. 

This knowledge, more than anything else, 
enabled him to extricate himself and the team 
from the difficult situation; for, using his head, 
he cut Dartmore’s little batting rally short. 
When he had retired three in a row he was sur- 
rounded by his teammates, all bubbling with 
congratulation and praise. 

“Some bean on your shoulders,” approved 
Macbeth. “How’s the whip? Think you 
might last through another inning? Good! 
Then I’ll hold Davis back for the ninth. 
Now fellows, you’ve got to get busy and 
grab some runs. Got to! Get me? Four, 

323 


324 CLIF STIRLING 

at least — and there’s precious little time to 
do it in.” 

Cuthbert made a little harangue to the same 
effect. Whether it was the result of their 
exhortations or Stirling’s encouraging ex- 
ample, Stormbridge waked up and fell upon 
the enemy, hip and thigh, grabbing three tal- 
lies in the seventh and one more at the very 
end of the eighth. Furthermore, Stirling, by 
an exhibition of brainy and nervy pitching 
that swiftly had the crowd roaring for him, 
succeeded in shutting out Dartmore in the 
eighth. 

It was nervier than anyone imagined. The 
injured shoulder had given forth only a few 
warning jumps and twinges during the first 
inning, but it grew worse and more painful 
throughout the second spell on the mound, 
until, at the end, Clif could hardly toss a ball 
without wincing. 

During Stormbridge’s turn at bat he seri- 
ously asked himself whether or not he ought 
to try to finish the game. He even walked 
over to where Davis, the junior, was still 
warming up, and watched him critically for a 
minute or so. 

“I don’t believe he can hold ’em,” he de- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 325 


cided under his breath as he turned away. 
“ They're just as full of fight as they ever 
were. I guess Fd better try it. It can't hurt 
such an awful lot — and they simply must be 
held." 

Assuring Macbeth that everything was 
“fine and dandy," when the time came he 
strolled out to the pitcher's place with a 
leisurely, assured manner. There was not a 
trace of a limp in his walk, although his 
ankle, as well as his shoulder, was giving 
him more than a few twinges. 

Unfortunately, the head of Dartmore's 
batting list was coming up. Clif had to pitch 
four times to lure the first man into popping up 
an infield fly. With the first effort, that 
wretched shoulder began to snarl and com- 
plain. But he merely set his teeth and kept 
at it. 

“One gone," he muttered, as the little fly 
was caught. “Two more to come." 

In spite of his care, the second batter made 
connections with the horsehide, and reached 
first. By this time little beads of perspiration 
were flecking Clif 's forehead and he had taken 
to clamping his teeth over the edge of his 
under lip. 


326 


CLIF STIRLING 


He struck the third man out. Then, as he 
stood motionless, facing the fourth batter, the 
hushed crowd supposed he was waiting for a 
signal or planning some peculiarly clever and 
effective coup. As a matter of fact, he was 
trying to compel himself to experience again 
the excruciating pain of making another 
delivery. When he finally drew back his arm 
and pitched, a smothered exclamation was 
forced from his lips. 

To the waiting Rodin the ball looked fine. 
But Clif had actually put a little jump on it, 
and Rodin missed. 

“Get him, Clif — get him!” implored Jack 
Stirling from short. “It’ll settle everything. 
You’re there with the berries!” 

Clif set his teeth, took the signal and wound 
up as if for speed. Using a delivery that 
seemed to promise another swift one, he 
handed up the slowest kind of a ball. It came 
with such exasperating slowness from Stirling’s 
hand that something seemed to be actually 
holding it back. In spite of his efforts to wait, 
the batter struck too soon. 

Clif drew a long breath and moistened his 
dry lips with his tongue. His shoulder felt as 
if millions of needles were jabbing it. He 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 327 


wondered vaguely whether he could possibly 
summon enough resolution to pitch even one 
more ball. Then he told himself that there 
was nothing else for him to do. The fellows 
counted on him, and he would not disappoint 
them. 

His lips were gray and a little twisted; his 
face streamed perspiration. Getting the sign 
from Tenny, he smiled a queer, crooked smile 
and drew a long breath. An instant later he 
whistled over a perfect inshoot, high and close. 
Rodin slashed at it and missed. 

The mob surged up with a thunderous roar 
of delight and started to pour down upon the 
field. But Stirling did not know anything 
about that. He did not even know the game 
was over. For, as that last ball left his 
fingers, he pitched forward on his face and 
lay still. 


* * * * * 

“But such a fool thing to faint that way!” 
grumbled Clif, flushing over the embarrassing 
recollection. 

“I don’t see why!” protested Harmon, 
bristling like a game rooster. “Everybody 


328 


CLIF STIRLING 


knows it was a wonder you could pitch at all 
that last inning. And I heard Mack say you 
were the nerviest — ” 

“Cut it out!” hastily interposed Clif. 
“Put the soft pedal on the mushy stuff. Fm 
all right now.” He reached for his hat — 
with his left hand. “Well, I s’pose it’s time 
for me to beat it. I wish you were going, 
chum.” 

They were back in their rooms at Hackett, 
and Clif, bandaged and lotioned and feeling 
very much of a faker with his right arm in a 
sling, was preparing for the banquet Theta 
Gamma always gave after every notable ath- 
letic victory. He also meant, some time dur- 
ing the evening, to have a little talk with Dig 
Lowell and put before him certain evidence 
which would open that rather dictatorial 
person’s eyes. 

At Clif s last remark Gene flushed a bit and 
glanced at him rather wistfully. “I — wish I 
were,” he said simply. 

Clif stared. “What? You mean you — ” 

“I guess I was just sort of silly the other 
day, instead of being kind of a hero.” Gene 
laughed a little awkwardly. “I bit off my 
nose to spite my face.” 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 329 


“In other words,” put in Stirling swiftly, 
“if you had another bid to Theta Gamma 
you’d accept it?” 

“Don’t be foolish chum. Theta Gamma 
isn’t going around begging people to come 
into the fold, I guess. I’m not likely to get 
another bid.” 

Clif’s mouth opened impulsively, but he 
closed it almost as swiftly. Presently he de- 
parted without further reference to the sub- 
ject. It was in his mind, however, when he 
entered the frat house. 

The crowd in the living room welcomed him 
by chanting, “Hail, the Conquering Hero 
Comes,” and Clif was ruffling Dick Madison’s 
hair in retaliation when someone yelled down 
from above that Dig wanted him to come 
up-stairs. Curious and a little puzzled, he 
went up the polished stairs and across the 
upper hall to a pleasant corner room, the door 
of which stood open. As he entered Lowell 
turned from a window and came over to him, 
with outstretched hand. 

“I owe you an apology, old man,” he said 
in his impulsive manner. “I reckon I’ve 
been pretty low down and ornery.” 

“An apology?” questioned Stirling in as- 


330 


CLIF STIRLING 


tonishment, gripping the proffered hand. “I 
don’t understand. I haven’t — ” 

“It’s about Fahnestock and that — er — 
athletic controversy. Especially Fahnestock. 
You’re entirely right, old chap, and I’m wrong. 
After that beastly trick he played on you the 
other day, it makes me rather ill to realize 
that I ever even thought of him for the frat.” 

“But how did you know?” gasped Clif, 
wide-eyed. “ Did Garry — ” 

“Fahnestock told me himself,” explained 
Lowell quietly. 

“Fahnestock!” cried the sophomore in 
stunned bewilderment. “Why — ” 

“He told me not an hour ago. I noticed 
him on the field talking to a couple of men in a 
gray car not far from us. He was waiting here 
when I got in. He said you’d found out all 
about it, and that he preferred telling me him- 
self before he left Stormbridge.” 

“He’s going — for good, you mean?” 

Lowell nodded. “He said that, after this, 
he thought he’d probably have a better time 
at some other college. I’m rather glad of it. 
It would be awkward having him around.” 

He dropped his eyes and fussed with a little 
bronze idol on the table. It was rather un- 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 331 


usual to see the self-contained Digby em- 
barrassed, but somehow Clif liked him a lot 
better for it. 

“It's been a shock to me, I confess, Clif,” 
Lowell went on in a low tone. “ IPs made me 
feel that perhaps my interest in the fraternity’s 
progress and welfare has blinded me a little 
to the — er — to the point of view you brought 
up the other night — the same point of view, 
practically, that Harmon holds.” 

“Held,” corrected Clif, smiling. 

“Lowell’s brows went up. “Held?” he 
echoed. “Why, you don’t mean he’s 
changed — ” 

His slight air of penitence had vanished. 
In a flash he was the normal Dig again, eager, 
alert and full of interest at the mention of good 
material for the frat. Clif chuckled to himself. 
Lowell was the right sort, in spite of every- 
thing. 

“Sure!” Stirling affirmed. “He sees now 
that he was sort of — of impulsive and high- 
falutin’. He was saying to-night that of 
course he’d never get another bid from Theta 
Gamma, but — ” 

“A good kid,” murmured Lowell. “I 
ought to have sounded you before, and I’d 


332 


CLIF STIRLING 


never have got into that mess. Still, I sup- 
pose, since there’s no chance of repetition, we 
might strain a point in his case.” 

“We’d never be sorry,” said Clif simply. 

There was a pause, from which Lowell 
awakened with a sudden start. “Er — about 
that other matter, old man,” he said quickly. 
“You understand that I — ” 

“Sure,” agreed Stirling with a smile, as the 
senior halted a little. “We were both sort of 
foolish, I guess. I know I was stubborn, and 
I don’t much blame you for getting a bit 
riled. Let’s forget it. It won’t happen 
again.” 

“Hardly.” Lowell smiled that charming, 
magnetic smile of his, and slid one arm over 
Stirling’s shoulders. There was a momen- 
tary silence, broken by a sudden crash of 
chords and a burst of fresh young voices 
chanting the first lines of “Old Stormbridge” : 

“ Again old Stormbridge shows her colors fair, 

Again she greets her heroes bold.” 

“Let’s go down,” said Lowell suddenly. 
“There’s nothing more doing here.” 

Across the hall they went, arms linked and 


SOPHOMORE AT STORMBRIDGE 333 


shoulders touching, and on down the wide 
stairs, joining their voices heartily and fer- 
vently in the chorus of the inspiring song: 

“ Then cheer for Stormbridge, old Stormbridge, 

Lift your voices, comrades, cheer !” 







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